It'll be utter rubbish as usual but tbe massive (and Massive) blog posts on here the last two years have been a joy.

Scabrous, vicious, unhinged, cruel and relentlessly funny. Are we doing it again this year?

I wonder, after seeing many similar entries recently, I can call once again upon the combined knowledge of the Massive?

It begins very, very quietly and then moves onto a sort of chair scraping noise. At one point a man coughs. After a little while someone makes a noise a bit like this: "Humumph". Then theres just silence for a bit then it ends.

Its about 4 and a half minutes long. I heard it in a library once and its identity has been driving me mad ever since. I've tried Shazam but it doesen't seem to know it.

Any ideas?

This may be a slightly specialist topic but I'm aware the place is jumping with Jocko's and football fans. Usually they're both. I'd appreciate your comments.

Jimmy Calderwood has just been appointed as the manager of my beloved Kilmarnock FC. A man with the personal charisma of a table, the face of the scary wooden guy from the old milk advert and the voice of someone who should be drinking Buckfast in an Adventure Playground.

But, for some reason, the Scottish media are hailing the appointment as a masterstroke. The guys a genius apparently and we should be damned grateful for landing him. Does anyone know why I should be as delighted as I'm told I should be?

It may not be festive viewing, but I thought it worthwhile to alert the Massif that the greatest documentary series of all time - The Wire of docs, The Citizen Kane of scary black and white reality, the fruitily narrated king of war minutia - is available at HMV currently for £30 of our earth pounds.

Thats a real bargain for over 35 hours of intensely depressing and distressing footage of people killing each other.

Go on. Get it in. It is Xmas after all.

Merry Xmas -War is over. But not in my house.

I have had an email read out on the Adam and Joe show on 6Music.

I can happily die now. What fresh acheivments can possibly compare?

Dont know what particuarly tickles me about this but I haven't seen it linked on here.

Enjoy

www.theonion.com/content/video/pragues_franz_kafka_international

There I was walking merrily along South Bridge in our nations fair capital - Edinburgh - when I realised the impossibly cool looking guy walking towards me was, in fact, Lester Freamon off of The Wire.

I was looking straight at him, his face being one I've seen more of recently than my own mother I was sure it was him, when I suddenly realised he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at my partners, shall we say, decollatage. Or tits as we say in these parts.

I felt strangely proud.

Is this wrong?

Off to the Playhouse on Saturday evening for a highly anticipated set from one of my all time musical heroes.

It was a little, as the young people say, meh.

To begin, the sound was appaling beyond belief. Byrnes twitchy, nervous persona is just this side of irritating when you can hear him but an indistinct mumble just pisses people off. Not his fault but the problem persisted throughout the gig. It was so lacking in volume I actually got told off by a woman sitting near me during one of the more soporific numbers as she could hear me speak, in a quiet voice, two rows away. It was like watching a band in a library.

The first hour, in fact, was the closest I've ever came to leaving a gig before the end. Endless deeply dull new material, those fecking dancers, a general air of artsy pretentiousness (and I like pretension!) and a total lack of neurotic funk. People were leaving, many were grumbling, some hecklage occured.

However, the second hour was great, if barely audible, and saw the thin one funk things up on a string of classics which had the place sedately going crazy whilst avoiding drowning out the band by singing along.

Not the greatest gig I've ever seen by a long chalk. Strange set list, terrible venue and the first time I've seen a guitar player (Mr Byrne) tune a guitar manually for around ten minutes while people drummed their fingers and quietly seethed.

Ach well. It was better than watching Total Wipeout.

I'm hoping some enterprising soul more net savvy than me can post it but what the hell is that small child being given at the beginning of the recent Ford Ka advert? The one with the "I feel bad about life today" song?

Its definately not a banana, its not an ice lolly. I know what it looks like but decency prevents me from even beginning to imagine what kind of mind could include such an image in an otherwise innocuous car advert.

What the hell is it?

Is Chris Morris working for Ford?

The last time I started a thread with a Journalists name a crazed, 200 plus response nut-fest ensued with the interjection of the writer himself adding a particuarly interesting denouement.

The same here would be great.

Anyway, I rather like Rod Liddle in normal circumstances. He was great when he wrote for the Grauniad though appears to have taken a turn for the twat since he went to the Thunderer.

But his letter in this months issue seems to me to be totally disproportinate to the carefully calibrated, and strangely random, insult in the previous insult. Its the sort of thing I write on message boards when I'm pissed and bitterly regret the next day.

What caused the venom? Why Rod Liddle? Why the personal abuse? And why was it printed in the magazine in the first place?

Is there a dark, Harry Potter style secret about the backgrounds of Hepworth, Ellen and Liddle? Was Liddle trapped by a magic tree whilst the Word boys laughed? Did they bully him mercilessly whilst they were all based at IPC towers? Nipple twisters? Indian Burns? Wedgies? What?

I think we should be told.

Conjecture, truth and outright lies are welcome.

At the risk of monopolising this board on a quiet Saturday night - I know I should be out enjoying myself but i'm just not - I have to offer another reccomendation.

I find myself incredibly excited by hearing two astonishing records in the space of a few days and I dont think I should apologise for wanting to share my enthusiasm with the Massive.

First one, obviously , is the Phantom Band record I've enthused over enough elsewhere.

The second is DM Stith's "Heavy Ghost". It's quite remarkable. An eerie, extraordinary blend of Jeff Buckley, Sufjan Stevens, "Ghosts" era Japan, latter era Radiohead and something magical I cant quite put my finger on. It's a little unsettling and seeps into you like a seepy thing. Theres a bit of Philip Glass in there as well.

At the risk of sounding like an employee of HMV ,please hear it.

Despite the general domination of american accented english in music worldwide, the countries of the UK have a proud record of unembellished accents being used loudly and proudly in our popular music.

Whether the cockney of Ian Dury, the seething manc of Mark E Smith or Morriseys more mellifluous version of the same dialect, the Glasvegaswegian of James Allan or the sheer what-the-feckness of the Reid twins martian most accents are represented.

What i want to know is, who's the best?

Personally, I'm going for Aiden Moffat of Arab Strap's Falkirk burr. Its the way most people in Scotland actually sound (Glasgow is not all Scotland) and hearing someone singing in that voice for the first time, to a provincial Ayrshire boy, was as liberating as reading Trainspotting.

'Mon the Massive. Gie's yer thochts.

Just wanted to confirmn that the shout out in the new issue for the Glasgow based Phantoms was a very, very good one indeed.

Genuinely original, great tunes, not afraid of the potentially ridiculous seven minute instrumental and, in their singer, the posessor of the finest scots accented singing voice in popular music - a category containing few entrants admittedly.

I only bought it this afternoon and I've already booked flights to Dublin to see them live in May. Thats how impressed I am!

Try it. Genuine contender for album of the year.

Thanks Word. Despite living near Glasgow and counting myself up to date with the cities music scene I'd never heard of them until this month.

It may be against the ethos of the evening of ghastly rubbish but let this be the repository for your hateful meanderings about this evenings offense against humour, love , life and the joy of existing on a spring evening.

It makes money and good for it. Why does it have to be so awful?

Bonus points for anyone being nasty about James Corden.

My dear partner of many years has a rather unusual quirk which, I beleive, may be unique.

She possesses a violent, intense and vicious hatred of Andrew Collins.

She has on various occasions, screamed at his appearance on TV, ripped one of his books from my hands and burned it, tore a page out of a magazine when she realised who had written the article she was reading and shredded it, began a grotesque Bruce Forsythy impression of him whenever his name is mentioned and just generally hates, hates, hates him.

No other minor celebrity who appears on list shows and writes for 50 quid bloke magazines suffers this fate. She quite likes Stuart Maconie for instance.

In some ways I can understand this. Mr Collins, is, after all, a man who has produced three volumes of autobiography without apparently doing much at all. Jordan has only managed two and at least got her tits out. But the sheer bile is puzzling.

Does anyone else have a partner who loses control when confronted with David Hepworth? Incensed by Paul Ross? Any list show talking head?

I am alone with this Collins hating hellcat and the new issue is full of him.