Submarine of the Day Award

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I'm pleased to be able to announce that winner of the coveted Buried in Pompsity Submarine of the Day Award has been chosen. It was a tough contest, but in the end only one candidate displayed what it takes to be a truly great submarine. I present to you, the SSBN Vanguard Class Ballistic Missile Submarine!

SSBN Vanguard - 'Wow! Wow thank you! Oh my god!'

Buried in Pomposity - 'Congratulations! How does it feel to be chosen as our sub of the day?'

SSBN - 'Oh, just great! You know, I always had a feeling I was destined for this award, ever since my inaugural voyage in 1993.'

BIP - 'Really, 1993? Gosh! So what would you say to those people who think that this award is about youth and beauty rather than talent?'

SSBN - 'Well, of course they are wrong. There's more to being a submarine than having a great figure and a pert little conning tower, you know, and it's time people realised it. Plus, you know...' *giggle* '... I still make waves in the right circles you know!' *wink*

BIP - 'I bet you do! Come on, everybody's dying to know, what are those vital statistics?'

SSBN - 'Hehehe, don't be so naughty! Oh, ok... I'm just a shade under 150 metres from stern to stem, and I have a beam of just 12 metres... but I can still cram up to 135 men inside me!' *laughs*

BIP - '...And your tubes? Tell us about them...'

SSBN - 'I got four of them! I know, right? They're 21 inches a piece. But I've got a lot more hardware inside, including...' *whispers* '...nucular warheads!'

BIP - '16 of them, so I hear?'

SSBN - 'That's right! But don't tell anyone, I don't want to seem too full of myself!'

BIP - 'It sounds like you're already stuffed full of men and bombs to us! But tell us, if a guy came up to you in a bar and wanted to chat you up, what should he say?'

SSBN - 'Oh, I don't know... chat up lines are so cheesy!'

BIP - 'How about "I'm not a submariner, but I'd love to go down on you?"'

SSBN - *gasps* 'Oh my god that's so naughty! But yeah, as long as he was confident, I reckon I'd go for it.'

BIP - 'So where should he take you, to impress.'

SSBN - 'Well, I spend most of my time off the coast of Portsmouth, just exercising, so he'd have to take me somewhere exciting. Ooooh... how about the Baltic sea?! I've heard so much about it and it has loads of history!'

BIP - 'It's a date. There used to be a lot of Russian subs in the Baltic though, what do you think of them?'

SSBN - 'Ahhh, I don't know. I don't really like them, they're a bit old and nasty for my tastes. Plus...' *whispering* '...I've heard they contract out to other navies. That is soooo nasty!'

BIP - 'Wow. Ok. So, who would you say is your hero?'

SSBN - 'Oh, that's a tough one. I'd have to say Dame Kelly Holmes. She's set such an example over the last few years, and I hope to one day become a role model like her.'

BIP - 'That's pretty unlikely though, isn't it. I mean... you're a submarine.'

SSBN - '.....'

BIP - 'A submarine...'

SSBN - *sniff* 'This is just the kind of bias I have to put up with every day. Just because I carry around weapons that could potentially destroy mankind forever, people never take me seriously when I talk to them about helping people.'

BIP - 'But you're a submarine...'

SSBN - 'You sound just like Oxfam, when I offered to be the focal point of their ad campaign.' *crying heavily now* 'They rejected me, Greenpeace ships hate me, and enviromentalists... they...they...'

BIP - '...yes...'

SSBN - 'They want to see me scrapped!!' *wails in anguish*

BIP - 'Look, we're sorry if we offended you...'

SSBN - 'No! No, its too late. I'm leaving. The interview is over.'

Ladies and gentlemen, our Submarine of the Day!

The weekend now commences. Usual bloggy service will resume on monday. See you then!

Royal MAIL (Massively Anal Imbecilic Louts)

Hello and shut up.

I am in something of a bad mood. In fact, it could be said that I am going postal. Allow me to explain.

My good friend Dave was kind enough to do me the honour of devoting his exemplary artistic skills towards producing an A3 poster promoting my band's gig on Saturday. Rendered entirely in wax crayon, this was to be a veritable feast to the eye. However, as he is also extremely lazy, he only finished this on Tuesday. Compounding the problem, he also insists on living in Cheltenham, which as many of you may know, is a pretty long walk from Norwich.

'Never mind!' I said to him enthusiastically. 'Her Majesty's mail will get us out of this conundrum!'

He agreed, and despatched the large piece of art off to me using what the Royal Mail likes to call their 'Special Delivery'. It all sounds foolproof doesn't it. The poster is special, the delivery is special, and I am especially excited. So excited, in fact, that I thought ahead to any mishaps that may befall the process.

'Oh ho!' I thought (for I think in a very archaic manner). 'But what of the breadth of my letterbox? Could it be that it is too small for the task in hand?' I mused further. And then I concocted a very simple solution. Next to my door is a brown cupbourd, which contains a bin, and some binbags, and is just large enough for three full-grown humans (as we discovered during a fun game of 'Hide Three People in a Cupboard' on one drunken Saturday evening). So I penned the following note before work this morning, and set off contentedly.

For those hard of seeing, it reads 'Hello Postman (or woman)! If the package I'm expecting is too big for the postbox, please put it in the cupboard to your right! It'll be fine in there. Thanks!', followed by a large arrow pointing directly at the cupboard.

I came home later to find the note still on the door, and excitedy flung open the cupboard. Nothing. 'Oh tish and fie!' I though Victorianishly, 'the dratted thing's not come!' Dejected, I made with the key in the lock and opened my front door to find this glaring at me from the mat.

I don't like to use abbreviations, but WTF?! On second thoughts, I'm not going to use one at all. What the fuck?! The thing was squatting there like a little papery tosspot, just daring me to punch it square in its bureaucratic face. Which I did.

Once I'd run my hand under the cold tap for a while, I came back and had a look at it. The second tick, you may be able to make out, sits just next to the words 'A signature is required'. At first, I thought that they had refused to deliver Dave's artwork because he'd neglected to autograph it, but I quickly dismissed that as retarded. They wanted a signature from me.

Why? I'd clearly given them leave to shove their package in my cubby hole, and that's not permission I grant to many people, I can assure you. And in writing, no less! Who else could have stuck the note on my door - a malicious neighbor who knows that I'm expecting a package and wants to steal Dave's crappy childish scrawlings? Fat chance. The whole thing beggars belief, and I've a good mind to lie in wait for the postman/woman tomorrow morning, then jump out and punch him/her in his/her stupid fat mouth. It'd be the least they deserve.

Anyway, this has not put me in the best state of mind for this evening's medical subject. As I've proven myself to be an able and chisel-jawed purveyor of medicine both physical and mentical, I have chosen to make today's blog a problem page. All of the problems are genuine and were submitted to me today by close friends and/or workmates. So, come one come all and marvel at

Auntie Dan's Helpful Dose (or ADHD)

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Dear Dan,

My ears sweat. Please help.

Thanks,

Wet Lobes - Norwich

Well, Wet Lobes, you are in a pickle aren't you. And I don't mean a delicious kind. I suggest that you liberally cover your moist auditories with talcum powder before going anywhere, although with such a stupid condition I doubt anyone's going to want you there when you arrive. If it gets very bad, try strapping two hand-fans to each shoulder. With any luck you'll turn your head sharply and one of them will take your lip off, thus sparing us any more of your pointless moaning.

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Dear Daniel,

Whenever I have an alcoholic beverage, I can’t stop at just one. I think this is becoming a problem as I bought a crate of beer on Tuesday and have already had 10 of them in the space of two nights. Always starts with just one, but I must have more otherwise it just feels like a waste of time. What can I do to stop this without actually stopping with drinking?

Mr Twiglet

Speaking as someody has met you, I feel that ceasing to drink would be the worst thing that could happen to you. Once that bubble of self-worth bursts, you'll have to face up to the fact that you are grotesquely unattractive and carry a distinctive farmyard odour. I recommend you increase your drinking to at least 10 drinks per night, in the hope that the beer will cover up that distinctive smell of damp cow. Also, try heroin. Lots and lots of it, all at once.

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I have an employee that works hard but always comes up with bullsh*t excuses for having days off/ coming in late.

I gave him a clean sheet when I took over as manager, but now that I’m around to the kicking his arse stage he tells my boss “I don’t like the way he spoke to me”.

True, my manager then hands his arse to him, but how can I show the employee who’s boss without him whinging to my superior.

I need your advise Aunty Dan!

Manager X Bsc, Norwich

Advice is spelt with a 'c' rather than an 's'. You can remember it with this simple learning aid.

'If you're wise, you can advise, but if you're nice, ask for advice.'

Hope that helps, doofus.

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Dear Sir

I have a problem. Let me explain...

Every time my girlfriend and I start a sexual intercourse, the only thing I can think of is the face that I will pull when I shoot my load. This is becoming problematic as I cannot enjoy the feeling of having sex to its full extent and I feel that I look stupid (the fact is I know I do, just by looking at my partners face when I do it). This is becoming so uncomfortable for me that I have to perform the ‘doggy style’ position every time I get close to climaxing – I did try a gimp mask, but I’m claustrophobic and it lead to me having a panic attack.

Can you suggest anything?

Mr Jingles - Sheringham/Norfolk

Firstly, Sheringham is in Norfolk, so you should have used a comma rather than a forward-stroke. Secondly, ditch your girlfriend immediately. Go to community centres and seek out blind or partially sighted women. This has the added bonus of them never knowing how truly replusive you are to the eye, both in and out of the sack. If you must insist upon retaining your present pumping-bag, then at least have the decency to blindfold her before, during, and for several weeks after intercourse.

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Hi Dan Dan the blog man,

I really need your help and sound advise.

I have been with my boyfriend now for 9 months and love him very much however he doesn't love me as much. When we're alone we have a good laugh but as soon as he's around his friends at work he just ignores me or takes the mickey all the time. It's really getting me down. I feel like I can't tell him cos he's got his own problems (excessive sweaty ears) but It's getting me down so much I think I might have to break up with him.

Please help,

Lonely and confused, Norwich

Hi Lonely. First of all, learn the difference between 'advise' and 'advice'. Then, meet up with Manager X Bsc and go and tell everyone how to FUCKING SPEAK ENGLISH. After that, dump your boyfriend and meet me in Honolulu. I'll be the one with the massively bulging Speedos.

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Dear Aunty Dan,

I have for years enjoyed relations with small rodents and marsupials. The problem is, I was planning a session tonight with 'Nibbles' my 2 year old Guatemalan Chinchilla but have run out of sellotape.

So my question is this: What are you having for tea?

I am having fresh four-cheese tortelloni, in a bowl, with a fork.

------------------

So, this is Auntie Dan signing off. If any of you have any questions, please get in touch. I will be at the Queen Charlotte in Norwich later making sweet music with my excellently handsome band. Until tomorrow x.

Guest who...?

Hello Wednesday. How are you? I'm afraid you just missed Tuesday - he nipped off last night. He should be round again next week, so you might catch him if you get here early.

Today we have the guest blog stylings of Tom Askew - Buried in Pompeii's guitarist and all round good egg. But first, I quickly want to run through The three things I currently dislike about my bathroom (in pictures).

#1 - The Toilet Water

It's gone green. It used to be a lovely, clear, watery colour, and now it has gone green bacause Tim, while bored, has put something in the cistern that will supposedly 'clean the bowl'. It's a toilet bowl, Tim - trying to clean it is very much like trying to polish a turd. Anyway, asides from giving you the impression that you're peeing into nuclear waste, the colouration of the water makes it very hard for you to inspect your bowel movements in any kind of detail. Obviously, I don't feel the need to inspect or even photograph my doings, but some of my guests might and I feel that the new toilet water will marr an otherwise pleasant stay.

#2 - The Thick Bathmats

I don't like 'em. They're soft, thick and luxuriant. I want to bury my face into them every time I see them, which is obviously completely unhygenic. I want to get out of the shower onto things that look like they're meant to be walked on by wet, glistening people. I don't want to feel like I'm drying myself in the billiard room of a stately home. I think this one is just me though.

#3 - The New Shower Head

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm all for change. And the old shower head did seem to have something living in it. But this new one... words fail me. As you can see from the photo I took not half an hour ago, the streams of water are very nearly parallel to each other all the way down. This is not a shower, it's a giant head-tap. I tried twisting it, but the streams just got closer together. Every time I have a shower (which is frequently) I have to position each individual part of my upward-facing body under this small, teacup-sized area. I am now at my wits end, and am thinking of starting a Facebook group entitled 'Bring back Dan's proper shower head.' In fact, if anyone want's to do so on my behalf, I will be happy to join.

Right, bathroom tribulations over, it's time to feast down on today's guest offering. Now, I don't know a lot about football, except that it probably involves feet and a ball. But Tom does, and better still, he also knows a hell of a lot about hair. Combining his almost encyclopaedic knowledge of both these subjects can't have been easy, but somehow he's done it, and in an award-winning FHM-style kind of... style. So, I give you...

The Tom Askew Top Five Hair Heroes of Football (with bonus free looky-likeys!)

#1 - Kevin Keegan

...with special looky-likey The Hulk!

#2 - Alexi Lalas

...with bonus unrelated ginger nutter!

#3 - Carlos Valderrama

...with some dude out of the Hair Bear Bunch!

#4 - Sir Bobby Charlton

...alongside my doodle of Bobby Charlton on an egg!

#5 - Last but not least, Chris Waddle

...with a special surprise appearance from your Dad!

Thanks for that Tom!

That's it from us. Take care all!

This blog is brought to you by some band or other, I forget which. It was written by Dan and Tom.

You total tubes

Hi!

I've been having difficulty thinking of anything to write about today, mainly due to the fact that I may have had one of the dullest days ever. The more exciting events included:

• My walk to work coinciding almost exactly with another man who was travelling at the same pace as me. This turned the whole journey into a very slow and farcical race in which he would overtake me by getting lucky on a pelican crossing, and then I would retake him by being on the pavement on the inside of a slow bend. This went on for 10 minutes, and I'm sure both of us were painfully aware of the other's irritating presence.
• My work computer needed to perform an update at about 11.30, necessitating a shutdown and restart.
• My colleague Mik turned my desk fan on at 15.30 to be annoying, then refused to come back and turn it off no matter how much I ranted and threatened legal action. In the end I did it.
• Walking home, I passed a young and dissolute-looking couple. The male of this shoddily-attired pair handed the girl his coat in a touching display of drunken chivalry. While she was putting it on,I clearly heard him say, 'Don't put yer hands in the pockets, there's a coupla sharp blades in there innit.' To which she replied, 'Nah, I just wanna wear it.' I found this rather sweet, actually.

So, as you can see I've had a well riveting day (I don't mean I've been riveting wells, by the way. I mean it's been exciting, although I was being sarcastic, so I don't mean that either). However, it hasn't given me much fodder for today's post. So I thought about yesterday's blog, and how brilliantly I was able to assume the role of a doctor when someone I cared about needed my attention. And I got thinking about my doctor, and the difference between us.

The only frame of reference I have to compare myself with the good doctor (his name will remain secret) is all the treatment he's given me over the years. So I thought I'd have a look at that, and see whether I could do his job.

In my professional relationship with Dr Diabolus (name changed to protect identity), he has:

• Injected me with medicine that will prevent me from catching measles, rubella, and mumps.
• Made me blow in a tube to see if I had asthma (I don't).
• Put his finger up my arse.
• Cupped his hands around my balls, and squeezed each in turn.
• On two seperate occasions.
• Diagnosed me with mumps.

And that's it. Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing but respect for the medical profession, but is it possible that I have been seeing the scariest, most useless doctor in the world? He failed to protect me from mumps (which makes your bollocks go really big and can make you infertile, for those of you who haven't had the trouser-splittingly painful pleasure of it), and he also made me blow into a tube for no reason whatsoever. The bastard. Also, I only let people do the other three things on that list when I'm in a loving, trusting relationship with them. And if I'm in such a relationship with Dr Deviant, then his Valentine cards have clearly got lost in the post.

So as far as I'm concerned, I am as fit to practise medicine as any local GP, and a damn sight less likely to molest my patients to boot. Now all I need is someone to practise my new-found skillz on.

Fortunately, I know where I can find sick people in their millions. It's right at my fingertips, and it's full of people who need immediate medical attention. I'm talking, of course, about YouTube. And in particular, the people who comment on it.

So, I'm going to see if I can diagnose what's wrong with three different YouTube users, picked at random by my browsing.

I'll try and find user #1 by typing something completely innocent into the browser. 'How to make a kite' will do.

Irritatingly, I found that YouTube's clever I-can-predict-what-you're-going-to-want-to-see-search-thingy doesn't work. After typing the words 'how to make a' into the search box, I was given a choice of videos offering to show me how to make a bomb, smoke bomb, laser, pen gun and a virus. But I don't want to make any of those things. I want to make a kite. Ahhh, here we are.

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=--U9mKsZi2Y

There is one comment on this page, and it is written by the charmingly-named xXxscumer12xXx. It reads:

nalaing ka yot

yotninam met tilaada idiot tatel dugyot torpe!!!

I am immediately able to diagnose this user. He is blind. What he wanted to type was perhaps along the lines of 'Making a kite! What a wonderful thing for somebody to show me!!!'. However, he was sadly unable to see either the keyboard or the video itself, thus resulting in total gibberish. Unfortunately I am not Jesus (or anything resembling Jesus), so I'm unable to restore sight to the blind. I'll list this as a failure and move on to YouTuber #2.

I fancied something a bit more incendiary for the second person, so I thought I'd grapple with a more polarising topic. How about something concerning the ongoing American Election? Sounds good...

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=q6SbkItLSQg

I select YouTube user xryan11 to be the subject of this diagnosis. His considered comment reads thus...

He (Obama) Could Be the anti Christ it says in the Bible That everyone will love him...But He cant even produce a real birth certificate and he is not an American Citizen he is a Socialist And that is one step down from communism he wants peoples hard earned money to go to people who dont want to work and choose not to work... if he gets elected we will get attacked SO WHY DO YOU THINK THE TERRORIST GROUPS ARE SUPPORTING Barack HUSSAIN!!!!! Obama hes not right... McCain 08

I am not going to comment on the veracity of this clearly heartfelt statement, or indeed on the validity of either candidate for the American Presidency. I'm simply going to diagnose what is wrong with the commenter. Here goes...

He is a fuckwit.

That was easy! I'm totally getting the hang of this doctoring lark! I would possibly go so far as to write this person a prescription for about 10 years worth of proper education, a long chat with a mental health professional, and a muzzle. In the meantime, I will move on to subject #3.

For the last one, I'm going to stray to the world of music. There's a lot of music on YouTube, and a lot of people who like music. So, who is one of the most well-liked performers in the industry? Ah yes...

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=FdJCtqegd8A

Here is a man who is completely incapable of causing conflict or strife. I mean, he's a Christian for goodness sakes! So, I should be alright to find a comment that is neutral, and that I can diagnose on its own merits. After all, this is a scientific project of sorts.

I've settled for Mr Twittertwatter's comment. It reads:

I dearly hope Cliff sings at the 2012 Olympics, and that he also suffers stage fright, resulting in him doing a huge shit in his trousers which is clearly visible to the naked eye.

I can diagnose this chap straight away. It seems he is suffering from an advanced case of 'hilarious'. Twittertwatter, go and have a lie down before you hurt yourself.

So, all in all, I think that was pretty successful. I must warn you though, don't attempt to look through YouTube comments yourself - you are likely to become very enraged indeed. Leave it to trained professionals such as myself. And for heaven's sakes, don't be tempted to comment yourself - this is akin to marching into an asylum, strapping on a straitjacket and demanding 240 volts directly into the spine.

Should have a guest blogger tomorrow. See you soon. Remember, Buried in Pompeii gigs on Thursday at the Queen Charlotte and on Saturday at B2, both in Norwich. Take care.

This blog is brought to you by Buried in Pompeii, who now have tracks on Myspace - http://www.myspace.com/buriedinpompeii . It's written by Dan.

Dr Pep-talk

Hi! Happy November! It's monday! Brilliant!

Bollog coming up, but first - STOP! Don't move. Now, very slowly, move your mouse down and click on the below link...

http://www.myspace.com/buriedinpompeii

Now you have three lovely tunes (at a reduced quality) to accompany your bloggy reading. Hows that for a slice of fried gold?

Ok, so the topic this week is going to be Biology - human biology for preference. But first, I'm just going to have a quick moment of gloomy (albiet tongue-in-cheek) introspection. Bear with me.

The thing is, I've read other blogs before, and it seems that the point of them is to somehow log the events of your life for the consumption of others. And that's where I run into difficulties, because I don't really have one. A life, that is. Not a proper one anyway.

I'm not married, and I don't have kids. I don't even have a girlfriend. I don't have a hilarious nuclear family that are always getting into entertaining sitcom-esque scrapes. I used to have a nuclear family, sure, but then they had a fall-out. Haha, Divorce! Funny.

I don't have an interesting job. I don't have sex, or go shopping. We'll, not much anyway. I probably have sex slightly less often than I go clothes shopping, and a hell of a lot less frequently than when I go food shopping. This goes someway towards explaining why I am so scruffy, fat and horny. In fact, I did maybe two things of note this weekend. One of these was recording the music that you are currently listening to, and the other was painting my face like a cat and climbing into a large four-person jumper that I'd stapled together with three other men.

So, after just over a week of doing these blogs, I was beginning to think that my cup had run dry. But then I thought, 'Who does have a life?' And it struck me. My flatmate Tim (he's the one in the Panda mask. Oh and that's our flat, for those who like to see other peoples homes) has a life! A brilliant one!

Tim has a life. He's the singer of a band. He has a girlfriend, of the small, blonde, friendly variety, and very nice she is too. He has an interesting job, which involves him driving to France and walking around on battleships (no, really). He has a hilarious French family which is very nuclear indeed. He's perfect for my needs.

So imagine my disappointment when I got home roughly an hour ago, eager to pump him for all the exciting details of his day, to find him under a fluffy blue blanket on the sofa, watching a channel 5 movie about injured skiers.

Yep. He's ill. What a tosser.

Still, not to be perturbed, I decided I could still milk him for all he's worth. So I decided to diagnose him.

As far as I can tell, doctors come in two categories. They're either supervillains bend on world domination, or professionals in bad trousers who like to feel your most intimate bits. The first one is out, clearly, but I don't think there's any reason why I can't be the second type. So I quickly got together a basic medical kit, such as a real doctor may use, and set to work.

Here we have:

• A glass, which can be used as a makeshift stethoscope. You know how you can use a glass to hear what the neighbours are saying through the wall? No? Well, like that, but on a chest.


• Then we have a knife and a ballpoint pen. Useful for performing an emergency trachiotomy. Also useful for cutting out tumours and then ticking that off your to-do list.


• A wooden spatula, to put on someone's tongue and ask them to say 'ahhhh'. We've all seen ER. That's basically what doctors do all the time. Isn't it?


• A notepad, to write down all the ailments and then make prescriptions.

Ok, so, kit together, I'm ready to work. Here follows a transcript of my diagnosis with Tim.

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ME: Hi Tim. How are you feeling?

TIM: (groaning) My head's going to explode.

ME: Ok. Good. Have you eaten anything today?

TIM: Yes.

ME: What?

TIM: A teacake. A teacake and a scotch egg.

ME: All the major food-groups. Was it nice?

TIM: Yeah.

ME: Good.

I pick up the glass

ME: Right, I'm just going to listen to your insides. Just lie on your back and lift up your top.

TIM: Ok.

I put the glass on his chest, in various places, but cannot hear anything.

ME: Ok. Interesting.

I pick up the spatula.

ME: Right, I'm just going to shove this in your mouth.

TIM: .....

I shove the spatula in Tim's mouth.

ME: Just say 'ahhhh'

TIM: muuuuuuuuaaaaghhhhhh

I take the spatula out and give it a wipe on the fluffy blue blanket.

ME: Thanks. Right, now if you could just drop your trousers...

TIM: F*** off.

ME: Ok, that's the diagnosis over. You can go back to watching 'Escape to the Country'.

TIM: Meh.

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It's taken me very little time to diagnose what is wrong with Tim. My suspicions were first aroused when I failed to find any heartbeat, or indeed any vital signs at all. His expression was slack and moronic, and his eyes were entirely without merit. My suspicions were then compounded when, after being asked to say the simple word 'ahhhhh', Tim could only manage to grunt like a lobotomised pig. And, when he refused to undress for me, I knew for certain. My flatmate has bcome a zombie.

Of course, I did what any good doctor would do. I drove the knife into his undead brain, then put him into a large heavy-duty binbag and leave him out for the dustmen, who conveniently collect on Tuesdays. I'm now advertising on gumtree for a new lodger - spacious flat, friendly people, no smoking, £300p/m. Let me know if you're interested.

That's it from me. You've probably just finished listening to our tracks. Go back and listen to them again, and then decide to come and see us play on Saturday night at B2 in Norwich. It's gonna be really good.

This blog is brought to you by Buried in Pompeii. It's written by Dan.