a while ago it snowed in england like it hasn't since about 1991. back then when foot-long icicles dropped from windows and snowmen were built, melted, and built again in the time it took to say "what's for dinner?", we were all very small, and we didn't know each other, and quite frankly we were all a lot happier than we are now. but that's beside the point. what is not beside the point is snow. manifestly. it gets fucking everywhere.

for example.  



pretty much white, huh. yep. me and jack got up early this one morning to trample around in it.



and so this is me. jack insisted on me posting this photo. it's part of his long-term strategy of making me look ridiculous while he looks... well, like nothing, at least publicly, though in private he currently looks like a weird ginger man-child with a chunk of hair missing from his head.

anyway. i look like captain fucking scott. about three minutes before he died. probably. for those readers of this blog who are unfamiliar with captain scott. he is one of that distinct and mostly extinct breed of rich white english men who are famous and indeed eulogised for not quite being the first to accomplish something, dying in the process of not quite accomplishing it, and as a result of a good solid public school education that instilled the three sacred Rs of reading, writing, and royal bloody arrogance, getting everyone else killed at the same time.

i didn't make it to the south pole first either, but at least i didn't wipe out myself and the rest of the band in the process of not getting there.

some trees.



in other news.

our house of supine athletics

is pretty grizzly. imagine the inside of a tour bus. imagine a tour bus after weeks of solid and sweaty touring with several disgusting young men. then imagine that tour bus veering off the road and crashing into a row of terraced houses on an otherwise clean and cheerful oxford street. then imagine no-one doing anything about it and letting nature take its course. that's what our house is like. a sort of midway point between crime, carnival, and catastrophe.

our mascot/matron/mistress mimsy:



yannis' thirty-third eye:



oxford commas:



and our rose garden, in its holy heavenly benevolent glory:



we've been playing risk together. jack is terrible at risk. i am obviously the best at risk--but, with some sweet sardonic irony, the worst person to play risk with. i'm just a dick, pretty much. an over-zealous, deathly serious arsehole.

this has nothing to do with risk. and yet... everything to do with it.



tinhead came round and did some painting.



before you admire (a) his studious studio countenance or (b) his artwork consider that before this he spray painted an enormous green cock on another wall. it just goes to show.

a few friends of ours have been coming and painting/stencilling/muralising various walls in our basement. more photos soon, hopefully.

what else.

well, we've been writing some songs. sometimes. mostly just kind of hanging out jamming. jamming lose. kicking out the jams. and so on.

a bit like this, i'd say.

sort of like that.

yep.

xx edwin.