• The Illness, Injury, Isolation, and Death E.P

    It’s said the only certainties in life are death and taxes, but what about sickness, suffering, solitude, and the fact that your favourite show will always be cancelled while “Mrs Brown’s Boys” gets another shitting series?

    The Illness, Injury, Isolation, and Death E.P
  • Bum On The Window

    Are we there, yet? We’re bored, tired, and the only thing keeping us from leaping out is the fact that we’re travelling at 117mph. Well, that and the bloody child locks are on. I swear, if this isn’t over soon, words will be had. Rude ones.

    Bum On The Window
  • A Very Brexit Christmas

    So, it seems we’re pretty fucked, right? Well, at least we’ll always have Christmas to enjoy, yeah? I guess it depends if your definition of enjoyment includes scrabbling in a ditch for road kill and rotting berries to make your dinner with.

    A Very Brexit Christmas
  • Crash Landing

    Look, we know that we’ve been away for a few months, but we’ve got a REALLY good excuse and, while we are loathe to play the organ failure card, we do have to say: ORGAN FAILURE. Unexpected, moderately inconvenient, dropped-out-of-the-sky organ failure.

    Crash Landing
  • Christmasdoo

    After a whole year of being wound up, stressed out, and pissed off by colleagues who thwart your sanity (especially that git who nicks your stapler), how better to relieve the tension than by getting chaotically drunk with the bastards?

    Christmasdoo
  • Stop The Marketing

    The nights draw in. The chill starts to bite. It can only mean one thing … that for the next month we’re going to be repeatedly sprayed in the face with the omni-directional vomit cannon of Christmas advertising.

    Stop The Marketing
  • Drat The Peelers!

    They are often referred to as the “thin blue line”, although many have implied over the years that the line might in fact be somewhat thicker. Not us, of course … we’d never stoop to making such a crass insinuation.

    Drat The Peelers!
  • Stop Killing People, You Twats

    It is often said that Christmas is a time for peace on Earth, and goodwill to all, but it seems that neither the year itself (or a substantial number of people living in it) have actually gotten that message.

    Stop Killing People, You Twats
  • Who Said You Could Die, You Bastard?!

    Hey, kids! Stop snogging, and pay attention to me! ‘Cause if you’re a wild-eyed loner standing at the gates of oblivion, then hitch a ride with us … this really IS the last freedom moped out of Nowhere City. Don’t tell your parents!

    Who Said You Could Die, You Bastard?!
  • Disco Bitch

    Journey with us to a decade of flared trousers, energy crises, and cocaine abuse as we bring you our very first song; “Disco Bitch”, the tale of a dancer with a serious attitude problem and a callous disregard for nightclub etiquette.

    Disco Bitch
Crash Landing

Crash Landing

Look, we know that we’ve been away for a few months, but we’ve got a REALLY good excuse and, while we are loathe to play the organ failure card, we do have to say: ORGAN FAILURE. Unexpected, moderately inconvenient, dropped-out-of-the-sky organ failure.

Christmasdoo

Christmasdoo

After a whole year of being wound up, stressed out, and pissed off by colleagues who thwart your sanity (especially that git who nicks your stapler), how better to relieve the tension than by getting chaotically drunk with the bastards?

Gig news!

Crikey! Blimey! We’re doing one of those gig things again! It’s been a while, so if you’re in Plymouth on October 19th and want to see us shake off the rust, why not come down to Rock Bottom Bar on Drake Circus and check us out?

The Orange Album

The Orange Album

Even if one is lucky enough to find a working pen in the smouldering ruins of what used to be called America, future historians will struggle to write anything more about this era beyond the simple words, “What the fuck happened there?!”

Vladimir Putin

Vladimir Putin

I am undefeated king of political dance floor; no matter what record I spin, everyone boogies to my tune, and when light hit mirror ball it throw off rays of Novichok in every direction. Turn up music, let hair down! Welcome Club Vlad!