& so, to politics.

This week Mr. Fisk, himself fanny-spat into the arms of a pre-Mugabe Zimbabwe, bumblingly musters the extreme brass orbs to wax lyrical on the relative ease of *ahem* life under the zero tolerance regime of the aforementioned murderous fucknut of a dictator (if the residents would only just ignore the politics & just get on with it - shades of Norman Tebbit, per chance?).

His counsel in such matters? The source of this blithering ignorance? A Zimbabwean, weighed down with an excess of (one can only surmise, raped, slaughtered & pillaged) money to fritter, he chatted to once via an on-line poker site.

Suffice to say, the resultant atmosphere in Drunk Country House Studios resembled that of a critical mass explosion in an exasperation factory.

& if that wasn’t bad enough, & against the flow of better judgement, one half of remarkably turned the evening’s playlist over to Mr. Fisk’s obsessional indulgence in all things early ’90s, laced heavily with a base ingredient of indie dance. Wouldn’t you know it, even Mr. Toad, (off of musi-blog deliciousness Song By, Toad), joined in with a quatrain of indie disco cuts — albeit accompanied by a contextual bewilderment the size of a white elephant.

Expect BPMs, baggyism, foul language & a giddying naïvité not seen this side of Chamberlain’s blank paper acceptance of Hitler’s half-baked pledge to not do anything silly.

May mercy Lord it up on our souls.

½DC + Mr. Fisk