It was good.

I am broken.

Contrary to popular belief, dressing up as a space girl and selling salvia and vodka nebulisers to e-tards is not an easy way to make money and pay off nautical debts.

Iggy Pop made me wee my pants. Fucking excellent.

I love my rats so much.

Binliners. Wellies. Plastic ponchos. Tins of corn and curry. Plasters. Ephedrine. Oxygen. Arcade Fire. A pink flowered tent. A reunion of rats. A selection of negligees. A red feathered hat. Storms and rain forecast. Helen as my manager. Beave’s number in my pocket. Some nautical el-wire. A faux fur coat. 12 hour shifts. 900 acres full of brits off their faces. On their faces in the mud. A costume made of playing cards. Gritted teeth and a fluttering heart. K-lashnekoff in the dance arena. Vodka and e-coli.

It must be Glastonbury.

So Turtle & spent last night trying (and failing) to make a recording of our septic tank slip-slooping around in the hull which, a month since our first pump out, is pretty fucking loud and has become a regular feature of our floating existence.

We have become obsessed with using this homely sound as a sample on our cover of Department S’s 1980 stiff records hit; “Is Vic There?” which will be aptly re-titled “Is Shit There?”

It’s not the obsession with our own waste which worries me so much as the way we are personifying it and seeking to immortalise it in music.

Who says that romance is dead?

Thank fuck that the festival season starts next week with Glastonbury. It has never been more needed.

So far, the most important thing I have learnt from living on a boat is:

Coots are CUNTS.

5.45 on the dot every morning, without fail, they swim up to an area 5 millimetres from my alcoholic, slumbering visage and make noises like a piglet being slaughtered. Then, once I am uncomfortably awake with no hope of any more sleep they swim off to fuck up someone else's morning.

I hate them.

When I was younger, and people used to talk about retiring to Spain or immigrating to Oz, I would be shocked and not a little disgusted. With the tune to “Jerusalem” wafting through my mind I would make a silent promise in my heart never to leave Britain. I could not fathom how anywhere could be better.

However, as we continue on the slide into Totalitarianism – fuelled by an increasing culture of fear, (which is seemingly unnoticed by the general populus, reminiscent of Nazi Germany) I find myself wanting to live anywhere but here. It is embarrassing to be British. We are no longer known for our tolerance and strength of character, we are regarded as apathetic, vapid sheep who are too busy reading about what fucking Posh Spice is wearing to notice any of the intensely worrying laws being passed that take away the basic liberties and freedoms that once made me proud to be British.

I was talking about this with a friend last night and he said that maybe people were embarrassed about the occupation of Iraq and that is why it is not discussed anymore. People are not embarrassed. They just couldn’t give a flying fuck. That’s the sad truth of it. People are too busy watching Big Brother. Oh, the bitter irony of it.

Fuck it all, I’ve had enough. I resign. Britain can fuck right off.

Brian Haw has been campaigning in Parliament Square against the war in Iraq for six years. The man is a total fucking legend. He is having a party on Saturday to celebrate his anniversary.

I'm going.