Mo music, mo music, mo music.

Another week, another week.

It’s been social, it’s been fruitful.

Two new songs popped up out of nowhere (Trewin), which, as usual, put things in a mass of choice-al [made up word mine] crisis. It’s like Ed, Seryn, Jeb, and I are running naked through a forest (yes), skipping through the low-lying leaves and rubbing ourselves against the monkeys while Trewin, poking his blow gun out of a stealth drone, takes us down with sweet paralysing poison. We’re now on the floor, in the mud, all covered in drool and talking nonsense...and then the poisonous effects of Trewin’s darts take effect! (At that point I expected you to think that the drool and crap was to do with the darts, but then cunningly confound your expectations using ‘sentences’, which, if I was unsuccessful on my first attempt, I have surely achieved now.) WOOOGLADTOKNOWYOU

So the poison (songs) takes us off into a magical world of unreality (music) but leaves us still and shaking on the ground in cold jungle moonlight. Let’s just throw them all out, yeah? I don’t mean in the bin, I mean into the ether. Into the great beyond. Into the broad faces of those who love us. Let’s just bung them out and throw CDs like frisbees off the top of The Shard, hack the BBC news site and get the mp3s blasting out - changing all the headlines to things like ‘Jeremy Hunt finally sees moral and economic short-sightedness in non-specific Americanisation’ – making people happy and hopeful. Let’s slide our pieces through everybody’s letterbox. Let’s turn every streetlight into a projector, showing all of Jeb’s videos on a continuous 24-hour loop across the entire country for the rest of time. Let’s replace police sirens with ‘Once Again’, so anybody in trouble can just get a hug and be OK and then sit down with the police officer and have a chat and everybody can do the same and we’ll have a cup of tea, yes? Let’s have a cup of tea. And when the kettle boils it’ll sing a Phoria song. And Grandma’s slippered feet as she collects the kettle will play out a skittish little Phoria beat and she’ll dance and smile as a tear, rich with regained memories of hope, slowly forms in her eye, around which lays the cruel cartography of a life so hard until this moment. And  then the new octopus blasts a foghorn in her face.

And then we wake up. In the jungle. Trewin hovering around above us, having written another ten songs while we were comatose. And now we don’t know what to do.

But that’s OK.

It’s all very good news.

We’re very flattered to be mentioned on this blog list of the best tracks of 2013. Any list that has us at No. 1 above Arcade Fire and Beyonce is OK with us.

In other news, Jeb and I set up the band projector in our top-secret bunker the other night, and experienced this shotgun cartridge of a film:

I can only recommend you do the same (if you have three hours). It is a Friday, and all that.

Do stay well. Have fun.

I’m off to dig in the made up word mine.

Tim