COCK PISS PARTRIDGE

I don't know about a match made in heaven, but there seems to be a certain symbiosis whenever a can of spray paint meets a brutalist building. In July of this year my friend Steve and I went to see Generation Sex at the newly refurbished Wulfrun Hall. Between our digs and the venue is an absolute behemoth of Brutalism - Wolverhampton Station Car Park; so much so it's something of a Modernist icon.

However, at some point between when the above photo was taken (and now residing in my office - thank you, James - a most splendid birthday present), and the snap I took in the Summer, this happened; so much to unpack. Maybe another time.

No fog!

Norwich, driving gloves, Roachford: all roads lead to Alan Partridge. Alpha Papa might not win Steve Coogan any Oscars, but it's been a long time since ninety minutes skipped by so quickly in a picture house. Kiss my face.