Hello again, you scrotty furtlers! Nam Rood liveth on in all our hearts, not to mention sheds, with grubby tips all still a-dangle from his inky forehead. But that's another tin of fetid maggots, to be saved for another dinner... Listen Now. We begin this time with two of the all-time most regrettable band name choices in recorded history: Kissing The Pink - Mr. BluntFoetus Party - Joyeux CrackMaster Scratch Band - PocketTyphoon Tosh - Trespassing SatelliteThe Narcoleptics - High Over GlenelgEwan MacColl & Peggy Seeger - Calton WeaverWithered Hand - Heart HeartYou can email [email protected] but I don't encourage it. Twenty minutes. No refunds.

The pie is blue, the graph is green, and nothing new is ever as it seem, so hello again and welcome to another podcast! You join me as I'm shampooing my sofa with a loofah. Mostly just wear and tear, of course, but one can never be too careful... Listen Now. This time out I intend to assault and discomfit you in the following wise: Tudósok - Karcsi Ha EszikKirk Lake - Dementia Puglistica (Smith and Hughes Edit)Little Fyodor - Watching The SquirrelsSweetwater - Through An Old StorybookTrans Am - FirepokerRas G & The Afrikan Space Program - Trying 2 Get ChipsYour insulting feedback as always to [email protected], where the filter is set up to send everything received to trash. Twenty minutes. No refunds.

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Send your unwanted mickles to [email protected]; we're raising funds to purchase a muckle.

Twenty minutes. No refunds.

The mist grows heavy, the cobblestones slicken and black, and treacherous rumours go murmuring along dark alleyways. Lantern candles amber the faces of wanton gargoyles, and polyvinyl curtains slap like sea-leather from cullis windows.  Out into this night ventures our hero, sideways-peeking behind from corner-folds, and yet though he does not pass unseen, by the gods he passes unnoticed...

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Pausing by a dismal doorway just long enough to find shelter from drizzle, he hears the drifting sounds of:

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It is certainly impossible to think; impossible, really, to do anything at all.  Circularity inhabits the wheel, and sheer exhaustion is all that keeps us pushing it forward.  Had we only the energy to see it, we might then have the energy to stop.  Centuries are dust; civilizations only the marginal scribblings in a disregarded apocrypha, the footnotes to the appendix of a volume of inconsequential trivia.

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In the abandoned archive, a cobwebbed librarian is trying to make sense of the following messages:

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Throw open your curlews, gentlefolds, and behold the tremulous chirruping of damsel-pies in dewy-fronded distress.  What menacingly trite apparitions come emanating from yonder dismal crenels and merlons?  Be it bunyip?  Or quinkin?  Ebu Gogo?  Popobawa?  Oh, all of these, all of these crawling slimy things, all the nightmares that lay a clammy flap upon the prickling neck...

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All throughout the night come the wingtips of a moth to brush against the cheek, and the whispered sounds of:

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On the summit skyline, a series of T-shapes in silhouette against thunderclouds. The bearded ones wander freely, unnoticed and undetected.  Is it such a terrible thing, this thing they do?  Since when has justice not allied herself to persecution?  Parking restriction notices are the impenetrable glyphs of the apocalypse.

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The warden comes a-wombling with his blackbook and pen, whistling the following jaunty melodies:

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The scale is wrong: the vanishing points inconsistent. The steps between notes form no tone or half-tone, the perspective is forced or false. Lunging crazily over the skyline, the lunatic figure of a kingkong wraithed in moth-tattered robes, thrusting stubby fingers up, up, towards the imagined chemtrails of poisonous radiation-dipped seagulls.

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These tendrils of sound will tantalise your earbuds like the ghostly fingers of a beckoning Lorelei:

Your dismay is my life-fuel.  Ram it down my neck at [email protected].

Twenty minutes. No refunds.

A score of tortoise-shells are piled before the prince. Sand and salt spray lift from the waves, whip across the face, form a crust around the eyes and ears. Thunder rolls across the ocean; a watercolour painted in grey.

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Perform the incrustation, and you'll unleash these mighty molluscs:

Why not put pen to paper, write a long letter, fax it to yourself and then email a scanned photocopy of the result to [email protected]?

Twenty minutes. No refunds.

Brexit came, and Turner the Worm was sick all over Donald Trump's face. "The conjunction of symbols at the vertex of chance is what the classical scholars called synchronicity." Yijing and yarrow float nebulously overhead and every course plotted seems full of ominous foreboding. Why needs must you tread on the tiger's tail?

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£0.10 for an audio tape cassette upon which you could engrave these magnetic glyphs:

Register your displeasure at [email protected].

Twenty minutes. No refunds.