Charity Song: “Simon Cowell: Sh*t For Ears”

DOWNLOAD ON iTUNES!*t-for-ears/id586619138

A campaign to send a stark message to Simon Cowell, and to raise cash for Stand Up To Cancer…

Charlie Brooker was right… What we need is song that exists as a clear message that we’re sick of Cowell, his awful televised talent contest, and everything the show represents.

Rage Against The Machine was a good start, but it’s time for a new song to be written, with a lasting message.

A single that exists for one reason only.

Purpose built to say what the majority of music fans from all over the world have been thinking about the X-Factor for a long time.

Simon Cowell has sh*t for ears.

All money raised will be donated to Cancer Research UK.

Thanks to Mark Wilkie for his excellent illustrations ( and to Michelle Woolnough for her help with the video!

Dr Rowan Williams To Finally Get A Job

Dr Rowan Williams who has 0071 150x150 Dr Rowan Williams To Finally Get A Job

After ten long years without a proper job, Dr Rowan Williams has finally found himself a real job, as Master of Magdalene College, Cambridge.  In a press conference, & wearing his special pointy hat, he said, “It’s been a bitch of a decade, I can tell you.  I’ve had to tolerate gays, women priests, & having to wear a dress to work every day for the last 10 years – I’m too brainy for this shit.  I mean, the money was good, but I couldn’t look my mates in the eye down the pub; they’ve all got jeans on & I’m wearing A FUCKING DRESS”.


sentamu140906 228x176 150x150 Dr Rowan Williams To Finally Get A JobSo who will take his place?  Archbishop of York, John Sentamu (sporting his finest figure-hugging fuchsia satin dress) was quoted as saying, “Bollocks if you think I’m up for it – nobody comes to my gigs as it is”.




cameron 2156276b 150x150 Dr Rowan Williams To Finally Get A JobDavid Cameron was interviewed shortly after the announcement.  He said, “I’m pleased that Dr Williams has finally got himself a proper job.  I mean, I know he’s not a proper doctor or anything, but it just proves that in these austere times, even the elderly can get themselves a decent job, if they just hang in there”.

A Quick Rant About MasterChef

This half of SB likes to watch Saturday Kitchen of a weekend; as long as I shut my eyes & ears every time the Z-list celebrity of the week opens their mouth, that is.  I love to watch really good chefs making beautiful food, as well as fucking up the Omelette Challenge.  I also love the archive footage they show; Rick Stein & Keith Floyd being particular treats.  But recently, the programme has been showing footage of Celebrity MasterChef.  This I do not like.


MasterChef: Like Cooking, Only Without Actually Seeing Any Cooking

JohnTorode1 300x219 A Quick Rant About MasterChefI suppose I should start by saying I’ve never actually sat down & watched an entire episode of MasterChef, but the clips being shown on BBCSK confirmed my worst fears.  Much like its similar counterpart, Great British Menu (or anything with that trio of judges, who may be literally the worst people on the planet right now), the show seems to comprise very little actual on-screen cooking, & a hell of a lot of on-screen whining about not being quick & professional in the kitchen.


Celebrity MasterChef: Just Because They’re Not Real Celebs, Doesn’t Mean They Are Real Chefs

gregg wallace 300x264 A Quick Rant About MasterChef

The BBCSK episode that aired 11 February 2012 featured three people who are apparently celebrities (I hadn’t heard of any of them) who had been asked to cook a meal for three senior members of the Women’s Institute, who would then judge the food accordingly.  Here is my review -

- It was horrible – these pampered, middle-aged harridans complaining about decent food cooked by amateurs, whilst a pair of cunts shout at them like they’re cotton farmers beating their ungrateful slaves.  ”Cooking doesn’t get any tougher than this” – people should be encouraged to cook, not told it’s hard!  We’re in the middle of a financial crisis & an obesity epidemic, & this pair of wankers are convincing the country (via the medium of frowning & scary music) that if your lobster Thermidor comes out five minutes late, it’s a crime akin to the fucking holocaust.

Tune into the BBC’s new programme, “World’s Strongest Paraplegic”, where Geoff Capes shouts at “lazy” paralysed people who fail to lift a metal beer keg above their heads, whilst a low held bass note adds to the drama…


Seeing As You Like Leon’s Hospital Misery, Here’s Some More…

Last month, we posted this story about Leon’s face mask accident, which left him in A&E for 11 hours.  It had a lot of hits, leading us to believe that although you may like our musical comedy, you prefer seeing us getting hurt.  So here’s a story from a few years ago, regarding another trip to A&E for poor Leon (warning: story involves serious penis pain):


“I suffer from kidney stones.  “Suffer” is the correct word; I’ve never known pain like it when one of those tiny, spiky fuckers gets lodged in your ureter.  It is a pain only comparable to getting one lodged in your urethra, which usually happens 3 or 4 days later.

Today, at approximately 10am, whilst at work, I felt the sudden & reasonably traumatic pain of a kidney stone lodging in my left ureter.  An hour later, the pain was such that I was having difficulty breathing.  An online self-help site recommended “bumping” up & down on a toilet seat (as so not to damage my testicles, thoughtfully), so I tried this.  It hurt.  I looked & felt stupid.  So I stopped.

Six hours later, the pain had not subsided.  This is not normal.  Normally, the pain is there for an hour or so, then the pressure of the piss above the stone forces it further down the pipe.  Not so this time; the piss was in a queue, & it wasn’t getting out.  In fact, I’ve only pissed four times today (I normally piss four times before I leave the house) – imagine a day’s worth of piss trapped in your kidney.  It hurts.  My boss decided she’d seen quite enough of me turning pale & grunting in what she considered to be a pseudo-sexual way, & sent me home. I don’t even remember making the decision to go to A&E instead, I just kind of drove myself there without thinking. It was here that the fun really began –

- I arrived at 4:10. I hobbled to the front desk, & managed to get the words “Leon Camfield”, “kidney stone”, “lodged”, & “very painful” out.  Within 5 minutes, the following announcement was made, at full volume, across a crowded A&E -

“Mr Camfield, we have a suppository painkiller for you”

Now, I’ve always preferred a girlfriend who enjoys anal sex, but I’ve always been giver, not a taker, if one catches my drift.  But I digress –

- A nurse held out a cardboard tray for me.  On it was a piece of gauze, on top of which was a bullet-sized pill, a dollop of lube & a rubber glove.  It suddenly occurred to me that I was expected to administer my own medicine. Now, I pay my taxes, surely my NI contributions extend to having a nurse poke a painkiller up my arse.  But no – this is a job for Leon, apparently.  Having never done this before, I went to pick up the pill.

“You’ll need the glove, Mr Camfield”

Now, I don’t use the glove when I wipe my arse.  I don’t use the glove when pulling stray hairs out of my buttock cleft.  Hell – I don’t use the glove when performing the above-mentioned rites with open-minded ladies.  But apparently, it is not The Done Thing to shove painkillers up your arse for the first time without a layer of latex between finger & sphincter, & so on goes the glove.  I bend over, trying to relax, & am just about to stick this bullet in my anus, when I catch my eye in the mirror.  Truly, a new low has been reached.  As I push the suppository in, I’m both repulsed & fascinated by how readily my arse sucks it up, like you would suck up a strand of spaghetti, if you will.  I was expecting my arse to try & reject it, or at least leave it sticking halfway out.  I briefly wonder if this makes me gay.  Probably not. 20 minutes after doing this, the positive benefits of the painkiller kick in, & I’m a new man.  This stuff is awesome!  I honestly feel like I could take a jumbo cock up the arse & not feel a thing.

After some prodding & poking by a blonde, Scandinavian nurse (she wasn’t fit, or particularly easy to understand), I’m sent for x-rays.  As it’s my kidneys they need to see, clothes are surplus to requirements here, but instead of letting me strip to my boxers, they force me into 2 backless gowns (one put on backwards so nobody can see my bum).  Then a urologist comes to see me, & for the first time today I’m concerned.  I’ve been getting kidney stones all my adult life, why am I wasting this qualified man’s time?  He takes blood & piss, & asks me to wait.

My next low – the painkillers start to wear off.  The pain is getting quite intense, & in a moment of weakness, I accidentally fart.  The fart is not entirely gaseous.  Rushing to the toilet, I pull down my trousers to find I’ve farted out a combination of air, lube & melted painkiller.  Unpleasant.  I then find there is no toilet paper.  I recant this tale to a young male nurse who countered, “We’ve all been there, mate”.

3 hours into my trip to A&E, & I see the urologist again, & he tells me that I’m turning yellow.  Now, my favourite TV show is undoubtedly The Simpsons, but I have no intention of looking like them, so I’m worried.  He gibbers something to me about my liver readings being slightly high, inserts a venlon into my arm, then he once more gets me to wait outside.  Then the male nurse comes & takes me to a ward.  Alarm bells are now ringing, & rightly so – they want to keep me in.  A million thoughts go through my head.  It’s only a kidney stone.  I haven’t eaten since 12pm.  I’m parked on single yellows.  But before I know it, I’ve got my very own non-charity wristband & a bed with 3 other people; a man in his 80’s who doesn’t appear to know where he is, a similarly-aged fellow whose only clue to not being dead is his snoring.  The 3rd occupant is an attractive young thing who is covered in wires, heart monitors & visitors.

Snoring Beauty wakes up; he has no idea how long he’s been in hospital, nor does he know when he’s getting out.  Methinks he’s in the wrong hospital.  I start to entertain the heart monitor girl, when I’m told that I’m being moved to Ward 7B.  Ward 7B does not sound good; Ward 7B has Room 101-esque vibe about it.  Amid fears that I’m being taken up there for rehabilitation, I start to try to convince myself that 2+2=5.  Instead of the totalitarian state I was expecting, I’m put in a ward with a young man who looks like a heroin addict, & an old man with breathing apparatus on.  Both are asleep.  The Matron brings me water; she looks like David Ginola & sounds like Ian Paisley.  This night just keeps getting weirder.

At midnight, I’m awoken by nurses bringing in a guy who has let a tonne of industrial bin land on his fingers.  He sounds quite chilled, given the circumstances.

At 2am I’m awoken, Gestapo-style, by a faceless doctor who wants to know how I’m feeling.  I bite back on the obvious answer of “tired & hungry”, & she links me up to a drip.  It is only now that I realise that they are in fact starving me.

It’s now midday.  I haven’t eaten for 23 hours.  Squidge Fingers has been taken away for reconstructive surgery, & The Heroin Addict (who in fact had a swelling in his neck so big it looked like he’d swallowed a grapefruit) has been moved to a different ward; this just leaves me & The Mask. He’s not much of a talker.

My only visitor turns up; Cara is an old friend & she’s looking a whole lot better than I do. “You don’t look so good” is the uncharacteristically subtle way she greets me.  On my way to the toilet (dragging my drip behind me), I look in the mirror for the first time since sticking the painkiller up my arse.  I look like total shit.

At 8pm, they decide to let me out.  They show me a cross-section scan of my body, & it turns out that I in fact have 3 stones inside me – a personal best.  I’m asked to go back tomorrow to get some drugs which will hasten their passing, & also make me cum back into my bladder – can’t wait to try this out!

All in all, I had that venlon in my arm for 23 hours, & I was starved for 28 hours, & they didn’t really do anything to me in return. They kept me drugged, hungry, uncomfortable, cold, lonely & bored just to tell me what I already knew. In a couple of weeks, I’ll have to piss all 3 of them out – I’ll let you know how that goes…”


I can now let you know how that went – I pissed them all out within 44 hours, & it was fucking agony.  Each one was the size of a piece of shingle, & because the hospital wanted to see them, I had to piss through a nylon sieve for 3 days.  Oh & orgasming into my bladder?  Horrific.  Below is one of the stones, on a 5p piece for scale.


n563259912 853056 9613 225x300 Seeing As You Like Leons Hospital Misery, Heres Some More...



The Lonely Irishman

It’s with great pleasure, after a bloody lovely Premiere evening at Molly Malones in Hitchin last night, that we can officially unveil our new video! It’s a new song from our still-being-written second album… A folk song with traditional Irish influences about the lonely cliche drunken Irishman in most local bars and pubs, and why you should make the effort to speak to them and find out about their rich and varied lives. So without further ado, I give you, THE LONELY IRISHMAN:

Leon’s Mask Accident: Story & Pics

In preparation for our forthcoming video for the song “The Lonely Irishman” (launch date 17 November 2011), Leon’s girlfriend offered to prepare latex make-up to make Chris look old.  To achieve this, she proposed to make a Plaster of Paris mould of his face, then fill it with latex.  However, as she’d not done it in a while, Leon volunteered his face for a trial run.  It went horribly wrong.  Leon promised he would blog this as soon as he had all the pics.  He now does, so in his own words:


“I really, genuinely didn’t think anything could go wrong with such an innocent plan.  It started at Em’s flat, which looks out onto the main shopping street in Letchworth.  She covered her sofa in plastic sheets, then I lay on them whilst she mixed up the plaster.  She slapped it liberally over my face, leaving me two nose holes (without which I would most certainly now be dead).

IMAG0325 300x225 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics









Within seconds, I could feel the mask solidifying around my face.  This was not initially unpleasant, although I found that I immediately couldn’t talk properly.  Fortunately, Em can read me like a book, & could pretty much understand what I was saying, after the third time of saying it, at least.  10 minutes passed, & Em decided it was time for the mask to come off.  I felt her grab either side of the plaster, & gently pull.  I’m sure you’ve all guessed what happened next, but just in case, I’ll proffer the obvious – it didn’t come off.  ”Didn’t come off” is actually a bit of an understatement – it didn’t budge a millimetre.  ”Hmm, it’s never done this before”, chuckled Em, & I must admit, I laughed too.  It took us a good 15 minutes to work out what was going on, but we eventually realised that Em had forgotten to Vaseline me, & that the mask was adhered to every single hair on my face.  I hadn’t shaved for a good 3-4 days, & the cast had plenty to grip on to.  Taking into consideration my morbid fear of water, we decided to soak my jaw in a hot bath.  Half an hour later, we managed to remove plaster from my forehead, but that was it.  I then (through muffled mouth & rising panic) suggested she call ‘someone’.  She didn’t take this the way I intended it, & did what every girl would have done, & called her Dad.  Now, Mike’s a wise old soul, but he was unsurprisingly useless here, having never actually dealt with a Plaster of Paris mould stuck to a man’s face before.  I was a little firmer with Em, & through a serious of muffled grunts & mimed finger-jabbing, told her to ring 999.  She did, & whilst we waited for the ambulance, I had to go through my first humiliation of the evening – having my girlfriend dress me.  I only had a limited amount of clothing with me, & so for all of you looking at the pics below & wondering why I decided to wear that particularly natty green shirt – well, it was the only item of clothing I had that didn’t have to go over my head.


The ambulance arrived reasonably promptly, & as the crew entered the flat, they both burst into laughter at the sight of me.  Indeed, they even asked if they could take photos on their phones.  I willingly obliged, & was relieved by their mirth; despite admitting they’d “never seen anything like this before”, their humour confirmed what Em & I were both thinking – removing this should be pretty easy.  I had to be led down two flights of stairs onto the busiest street in Letchworth, into the ambulance.  Once inside, I got Em to take some pics, thinking it would provide a funny blog.  Here’s me somehow managing to give her an evil glare through an inch of plaster -

IMAG0327 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics










We arrived at hospital – I believe they took me in the back way to spare my blushes, but this was short-lived, as – just like the ambulance crew – every member of staff found the sight of me hilarious.  More photos.  The head doctor (formerly a surgeon, which turned out to be a bloody good thing) took one look at me & said, “You really shouldn’t try this at home”.  He then left me to continue soaking my face (in a dish you piss into, brilliantly) whilst he dealt with the genuinely ill.  He kept popping in to see if it was coming off.  It wasn’t.  He sounded more & more worried, every time he came to see me.


It must have been around 10:30pm when he finally gave me his full attention.  Having considered every option, he figured the only way to get it off was to use a stitch cutter (just like this one), & to cut (or in about half the cases, tear out) every hair on my face, one at a time.  And so it began, primarily with my throat/neck area; a sharp piece of plaster was jabbing my Adam’s apple, & they wanted a clear airway.  Here’s what that looked like after he’d cut (& then snapped) that section off -


IMAG0332 300x225 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics









Yes, it was as sore as it looks.  And this was how the next six hours carried on for me; I hadn’t figured out that the cast would also be stuck to my eyebrows & eyelashes, & I found out the hard way.  Having a lump of plaster hanging off my eyelashes & then having a scalpel that close to my eye to cut off/tear out said lashes will stay with me to the grave.  I’ve not cried in pain since I was a little boy, but I’m not ashamed to admit that the mask filled with tears & dribble on more than one occasion that night.  Here are some more pics of the removal procedure; I especially like the expression on the face of the male nurse in one of these -


IMAG0333 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics

IMAG0334 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics


IMAG0336 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & PicsIMAG0339 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics

I’m wet because they doused me in several litres of water to soften the hair (remember what I said earlier about the fear of water), & I’m holding me eye because it was full of grit & it hurt if I didn’t hold it.


All in all, it took 11 hours from the mask going on, to the last of it to be removed.  I had my mouth covered for a good seven hours, & my eyes for a good nine hours.  I had to piss in front of Em, fart in front of nurses & scream within earshot of everyone else in A&E.  I’d like to publicly thank the doctor, who worked five hours later than he was supposed to, & despite it being her fault, I’d like to thank my girlfriend, who was incredibly supportive, & risked her job to ensure she didn’t abandon me (yes, her employers considered disciplining her for not going into work three hours after we got out of hospital).


This happened on 31 August/01 September 2011, & I’m writing this on 04 November 2011, where I can confirm that my eyebrows/eyelashes are 95% back to normal.  The eyelashes grew back quite stubbly, which was painful every time I blinked.  There are a few patches of beard between my chin & my throat that haven’t started growing back yet, too.


Finally, here are the pics I took when we got home from hospital.  Zoom in if you’re feeling brave…”


IMG 0576 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics

IMG 0577 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics


IMG 05801 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics

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IMG 0578 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics

IMG 0582 225x300 Leons Mask Accident: Story & Pics

Cliff Richard, or ‘the Curse of Being a Christmas Whore’

Sir Cliff Richard is a Christmas Whore.

He’s a slutty little elf in Santa’s seasonal sexshop. He’s a dirty little minx inside the yuletide brothel. Every year, he dons a sexy Christmas outfit, and allows millions of complete idiots – delirious with Christmas cheer to the point of having no musical taste whatsoever – to fuck him up his rosy little Christmas elf bum. Sir Cliff Richard is a Christmas Whore.

Now we’ve got the bare facts out of the way we should probably explain for the benefit of those either confused or turned on by the above: Cliff Richard just lives for Christmas now, when he can bosh out another TERRIBLE song (usually religious) and sell it by the shedload to what can only be described as an army of dickheads. This is something that has bugged SB for a fair while, and a few years back we penned a little tribute to the whorish nature of Sir Cliff’s Christmas addiction. We only perform it live, because it’s essentially a cover and so to record it properly would get us sued (and we all know how sensitive SB are about that…) but we figured putting up a little archive live recording with some accompanying pictures of Sir Cliff for all to enjoy this Christmas.

So without further ado… We give you – ‘CLIFFMAS TIME’.

Another Open Letter to East Coast Trains…

Good morning face-less soul-less customer advisor,

We got your reply. Thanks. (Sort of.) Now, you’re not gonna want to hear this, but we’re afraid “sorry” simply isn’t good enough, pal. Do you have any idea how angry we are with you right now? About this angry:

interesting nifty funny amazing 1239372346 angry baby200907241427172611 Another Open Letter to East Coast Trains...

Why are we this angry? Well. Let us break this down for you. We weren’t really hinting at an apology and a promise that you’ll half heartedly discuss your dodgy air con at a meeting sometime in the distant future. We’re not sure the thought of 15 people in suits sitting round a big table at 9:30 on a Wednesday morning going “oh, yeah, the air-cons knackered again… People complained and that.” is really going to tame any of this anger. We want a bloody refund, you punks.

We know we’re not the only people who feel this way. We were sat on a carriage with a bunch more. They were all saying how they’d complain and ask for a refund. So, in the words of Jennifer Anniston; ‘here comes the science bit’:

We reckon there was around 1000 people on that godforsaken sweat-box fridge-freezer combo flu-trap you call a train. Now let’s assume for a mental, mind-blowing second that you refunded everyone on that train the £70 or so they forked out to get to and from Edinburgh. That’s £70,000 in refund. “OUCH”, I hear you cry. However – you CAN afford this can’t you? You cheeky little monkeys! Of course you can! Because – wait for it – for the period from April 2010 to March 2011, East Coast made a pre-tax operating profit of £182.8 million and was able to pay £177 million to the Department for Transport for whom it runs the company. HAHA! You couldn’t make it up!! You could refund every single person on that train, and still have enough money left to buy them all electric cars.

But you don’t care do you? Because you’ve got us all by the short and curlies haven’t you? We don’t have a choice but to sit there and endure a terrible service, with not a slither of hope that we’ll ever see any of our precious pennies back. Because we’re stuck HAVING to use you. Let me try and illustrate this horrid situation in a short metaphorical comparison:

I run a butchers shop. Only problem is I tend to sell beef that tastes like total shit. And even though I make, oh I don’t know, £182 million pounds profit a year. I never give refunds. EVEN when customers email me saying “ugh, your beef tastes like shit“. You know why I don’t refund them? Because it doesn’t matter. They’ll come right back next week, buying my shitty beef. Because people HAVE to buy my beef. Because I’m the only butchers shop in the UK who sells beef.

Do you get what we’re trying to say here?

Oh, and by the way; we’ve both gotten over our colds that were surely helped in no small part by the wildly fluctuating temperatures we had to endure on your train. (Thanks for asking.) Rest assured that we have kept every single one of our snotty tissues, and are currently deciding the best use for them. We’ve had a lot of ideas so far – posting them to your head office one by one, sticking them to your posters, attaching them to your trains…. That sort of thing. But we think we’ve settled on a more practical option; we’re going to weave them into a makeshift snot-rag duvet that we can take with us up to Edinburgh next year when forced to sit on one of your trains: If the carriage is too cold, we can wrap ourselves up in it and cuddle, and if the carriage is too hot, we can tear bits off and fashion some nice tissue pants to strip down to.

So anyway – in summary – East Coast Trains: Stop being a shitty beef merchant. Refund people when they complain that they’ve received a terrible service. And as we’ve already appealed for you to do in a previous letter – STOP TREATING THE COUNTRY LIKE MUGS.

Yours, Spandex Ballet.

An Open Letter To East Coast Trains pt2

East Coast Trains have just replied to my letter to them about our horrific journey to and from Edinburgh with them… While I contemplate my reply, I thought I’d share their response with you…

“Dear Spandex Ballet

Thank you for your email received on 26 August 2011 regarding air conditioning on our services.

I am sorry that the air conditioning and heating failed on your journeys with us. We want all our customers to have a pleasant and enjoyable journey experience. We let you down on this occasion, and I sincerely apologise for the discomfort we caused you.

We carry out regular checks on our air conditioning systems and heating systems. It is designed to keep carriages at a comfortable level, approximately ten degrees cooler than the ambient temperature outside. As with any electrical system, there are occasions when mechanisms fail and attention is required. Although it may be possible to repair minor faults on the route, we usually have to make major repairs when the train returns to the depot.

Your comfort is important to us, and we train our staff to move customers to another carriage in such circumstances. I am sorry if this option was not offered to you.

I have made sure that your complaint has been logged for both of your journeys and that this matter will be brought up in future meetings.

Thank you for contacting us. We do value your custom and I hope you will continue to use East Coast services.

Yours sincerely
Customer Relations Consultant”

An Open Letter To East Coast Trains…

To Whom it May Concern,

This morning, we have woken up to the news that train fares in the UK could go up by another eight percent. This, on top of our recent experience travelling in one of your sorry excuses for a ‘train’ to the Edinburgh festival, has led us to write to you.

Some of this letter was written on a laptop as we sat aboard your train from Edinburgh to Stevenage after a wonderful week entertaining people at the Scottish Capital’s comedy festival. You may be wondering why we felt the need to act with such haste – typing the letter of complaint whilst still on the train itself seems a rather knee-jerk reaction when these things should often be considered with the benefit of hindsight. But in truth, there are two main reasons for starting the letter on the train itself: 1) We wanted to at least begin writing this while still angry enough about our experience with you to express it with an appropriate level of profanity and 2) because we fear that by the end of our journey we may be suffering from frostbite, and subsequently lose the use of our fingers, due to the ridiculous temperature of the carriage we are sitting on. This carriage is absolutely fucking freezing. The air conditioning unit has gone mental. I mean, who have you got operating the thing? Have you outsourced your “Carriage Temperature Control Officer” post to Siberia? Neither of us are sure we can remember the last time we felt this cold. And we’ve just spent a week in SCOTLAND.

The only logical explanation as to why your train back from Edinburgh was so stupidly fucking cold this afternoon is that your company were trying to some how compensate for the temperature of the train we had to sit on for 5 hours all the way UP to Edinburgh last Wednesday. Which brings us neatly to the second part of our complaint: Last Wednesday, your train was more akin to a Sauna in downtown Baghdad than a train. It was stupidly hot. By the time we reached Edinburgh, we were sweating like the Store manager at the grand opening of Hackney’s flagship ‘Nike Trainers, Jewellery, Xbox and Flatscreen TV Emporium‘.

So there you go. That’s why we’re pissed off with you: Because you attempted to cook us on the way up to the Edinburgh festival, and then seemed hell bent, on the way home, to cryogenically freeze us. How difficult is it to make sure the temperature of your trains is NORMAL?! And if something HAS gone wrong (we know that sometimes thing do go wrong – just watch some of our shows from this week) why on earth weren’t your staff on hand to give out free water / ice when it was too hot and hot drinks / blankets when it was too cold? Instead of helping, the staff on our trains just seemed more interested in taking the “well at least you don’t have to work here” line. Which, while I’m sure a valid point, didn’t really take the edge off of our irritation. For a start – at least they were getting PAID for being on the fucking thing, instead of being wallet-raped for the privilege.

Which brings us ever so nicely to point three: YOU ARE GUILTY OF BUGGERING THE NATION UP IT’S COLLECTIVE BUMHOLE FOR YEARS. The fact that you are even CONSIDERING putting your prices up AGAIN is like threatening to stop using lube and try out that brand new spiky cock-ring David Cameron bought you for Christmas. The majority of the country cannot afford to pay the ludicrous prices you charge them to get to work, to get to university (not that anyone can afford that anymore anyway but that’s another point entirely) or to get to London to go shopping (or looting, or whatever the craze is these days), WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF A RECESSION, YOUR GOVERNMENT-RUN COMPANY MADE £1.2 MILLION PROFIT LAST YEAR, AND YOU WANT TO CHARGE US ANOTHER EIGHT PERCENT? HAVE YOU GONE COMPLETELY BATSHIT MENTAL WITH GREED?

So while I stock up on Lemsip and tissues to deal with the impending cold, the blame for which I will lay squarely at your door, I urge you to reconsider putting up your fares, stop treating this country like a bunch of total mugs, and start providing a public transport service that gets people from a to b without leaving them waddling down the platform assessing the corporate damage done to their anus.

Yours safe in the knowledge this will be ignored.

Spandex Ballet