The muse has been absent of late.  She eloped with my libido and last I heard they'd set up home in a caravan off the Cornish coast, selling tuppenny tricks to tourists.  I miss them.  In their place is Mr Cough and his quarante par jour Gauloise hack.  When I cough I fear my innards will rise up out of my throat and run for the hills, tired of being deafened and racked by my rasping.  And my voice has taken on the low growl and rumble of a Tinderstick.  I'm now able to bring a woman to climax with a simple sentence, like how much is that doggy in the window, at fifty paces, which has served to bring the city centre to a shuddering halt over lunchtime.

Meanwhile, for any of you in London, how could you? If the rumours are true, and the racist, mysogenist, liar Boris Johnson is the next Mayor, then shame on you for letting it happen.  Ken has his faults, but Boris Johnson?  Hartlepool elected a monkey as mayor, so the primordial suburban slime with their SUVs and Fendi bags that rate Johnson must figure they need a leader one step further down the evolutionary track.

Political rant over....moving on...

This week I are mostly been listening to Elbow's version of Independent Woman (Destiny's Child) http://www.rathergood.com/independent_woman/; The Last of the Shadow Puppets and Portishead's brilliant return, Third.  So, some Lancashire comedy, some Scott Walker nostalgia and some disturbing tortured trip hop. A good week I'd say.

Hmm. So maybe Ms Muse is back after all.  But where's Sir Libido?  I'll go and have a fumble over Monica Bellucci and see if that hits the spot.  TTFN!