I first saw Trash Fashion about a year ago, which is weird ‘cause I used to wander Hoxton a lot when I was younger. The square's a triangle and it's all a blur now - bar to bar, what I remember most is the long trek home, turning into sticks that clattered against the top of the bus and the drizzle flickering like raging Sega static on the other side of the glass. The windows were tag-scratched, not like now, with the aero-clean, then the gases, then the hole and the dust pouring through it with the sun. But that was then, and this is now, even if there's no wife, no kids. We've still got our island, floating at will between points somewhere just off Spain.

Bleared window’s open with the humidity. Semi-soft duvet. Take off my shirt to write this review, not for the want of male/female rapport, but ‘cause I’ve been out sat all day, and then Parts and Labor; and it’s not right that the dregs of the ‘werking’ day be still wrapped round a ex-pat's shoulders at one minute to one on a Tuesday night. Ridiculous, even.

No letters sitting on the side, no threats in red-ink from solicitors, bailiffs. Docile, ta, to the great postal strike of '07. Post mark this - ‘last night’, 1am now - with your comments ‘cause I know that Trash Fashion are a red-rag to this readership and this is a bolt-on. You wanna know what I think? You wana comment my pix plz?

'llow that red rag. This stuff is docile, no ta pussy; tar-pit though, with one veined arm haggling with survival and a future relocated to Thompson's family-break chalets and kid activity and karaoke while the great postal strike of 2010nth drags on back home. Locked in the chalet, youth boy 'cross the beach in the cheap rooms tuts and withers while his guts drag him outside to aunty and the sing-along; a scraggy-haired host and a luminous audience all mottled from ket and binged out Fridays just past the turn of a century.

This is what’s playing, come barging in through the window at 1.20am, 2020 in stabs of lime and hot pink and chintzy shit, disco balls circling like a vulture, picking off the long gone ‘Oxton runners. Casualties in casual, bones sagging and rattling in fluoro dance-bags, footpacks, headgear; and granddad’s got a neon holdall for his warped nutsack; all cut and weeping from a youth of hairspray tabs and soylent kebabs and bottled, Brazilian Brahma blood. They tricked him ‘cause this was just never fun, it was 'Agadoo' repackaged and at the end of it all Jasper Carrot’s still alive and onstage, telling you to “Shake your body / if you love your mom and daddy” and youth boy 2020’s got no idea why they gave that varicose twat the microphone and - least of all - why he’s pretending to be so angry.

Whither Jim Davidson in the digital age; listening to this makes me hate myself.