Adam Price (a moth) was born in a caravan (in the cupboard bit that contained the boiler) in about June of 2012. 
As a youngster Adam would spend his days flying around Bury St Edmunds eating sap, bird droppings, dung, pollen, rotting fruit and generally getting up to all sorts of mischief like any normal boy/moth. 
By about October he had developed a passion for flight.  He loved to fly. He adored looking down on the towns and cities at night and said that the sensation "gave him the most intoxicating rush". Sometimes he'd fly straight up into the sky, as high as possible, beating his little wings as hard as he could as he went higher and higher. On one occassion he flew so high that he passed out and woke up on top of a lorry in a motorway service station just off the M11.
Adam also had a passion for motorbikes. He'd spend hours sitting in his caravan producing technical drawings and designing tiny little super bikes which he'd send off (first class) to his favourite manufacturers like Yamaha, Kawasaki and Suzuki. Often his designs wouldn't go into production and occasionally he wouldn't even get a reply, but Adam didn't care that much because he was a moth and they don't really have feelings.
On February 15th 2013, whilst flapping around near a shed,  Adam was eaten by a Perigrine Falcon and died. 
Adam is survived by his sister Beryl Pelvis. 
May God have mercy on his soul. 
Happier Times: A picture of Adam Price at a wedding in about September 2012


5 Places 

To Take 

Your Date 


Today is Saint Valentine's Day, a day celebrated all over the world to honour the memory of seven mob associates who were brutally murdered in a 1929 massacre during a conflict between two powerful criminal gangs during the prohibition in Chicago. Why you lot think it's appropriate to mark this occasion by giving each other chocolate, flowers and sexy knickers remains a mystery to me. But now, thanks to the greedy consumer culture you've created for yourselves, Valentines Day has become just another smudge on the calendar, engineered to squeeze more money out of pockets. If you want to carry on knobbing your latest tart then you'd better pay out or be prepared to spend the rest of the year sitting in your bungalow and cracking one out whilst you watch Babestation through a veil of lonely tears.

Being stuck in the middle of a recession, which keeps dipping more than an old lady with shit loads of biscuits and a massive cup of tea, means that it's harder than ever to make a romantic gesture that will impress your latest fancy woman enough to let you bum her. But fear not, because there are actually lots of things you can do on the cheap that are fun, romantic and thrifty. 

You probably won't be surprised to learn that I'm a bit of a Casanova and don't exactly struggle to get people into bed. This time last year, for instance, I spent the evening getting off with Emma Bunton in a shed. My mate Sexy Chris says I'm talking out of my arse but Sexy Chris is a fucking idiot and couldn't get a girlfriend if he tried, especially since he got his penis stuck in the exhaust pipe of a Yamaha TX500 and it fell off. If I wanted Sexy Chris' opinion on something then I'd ask him what it's like to sputter urine out of a tiny little hole above his bollocks.
Here is my list.


Since Clunes moved to Dalston he's turned into a right trendy piece of work. On Thursdays he opens up his flat as a sort of pop-up restaurant called 'Chez Clunes' and charges people a fiver for a 3 course meal that he prepares himself using the Breville VST038 Sandwich Toaster that he keeps under his bed. The reviews aren't great. A few weeks ago a man died for instance. The food's pretty out there though. Last week he stole a bunch of shoes off a prostitute, covered them in pesto and served them in a canoe. Some people would describe Clunes as a culinary visionary who takes the concept of cuisine and hurls it into brave new realms, but most people would probably just describe him as a dangerous menace to society who should have his operation shut down by the Food Standards Agency before anyone else is killed.


We're living in austere times so why not spruce the place up and invite her back to yours? Clean all of the beer cans/corpses out of your front room and cover the floor in rose petals/nettles. Cook a nice meal. Champagne. What's more romantic than hearts and swans? Serve up a swan's heart for instance. Play some romantic music. Try not to sexually assault her. It ruins the vibe. 


If you're anything like me then you'll  find a visiting a slaughterhouse to be quite a sensual experience. Something about the darkness, the dampness and the screaming makes me feel pretty horny. There's often so much blood that there's a sort of metallic taste in the air. It's erotic. I once went on a date to Woolwich Abattoir with a right proper vixen called Brenda Plough. She said her favourite part was riding one of the horses that we found in the beef burger department. 
Sadly Brenda and myself broke up not long after following an incident in which I murdered her and ate her head. Relationships can be hard. 


A good laugh. Why not go and eyeball up a bunch of weird looking buggers who've been locked up in prison? Good day out for a girl with a fucked up sense of humour. 
N.B - I once had a palmful of shit lobbed in my face by a gibbon so watch out for the that one or you could end up looking like a right plum.


Fairly easy to organise if you're a human. Bit of a tricky one if you have four legs and everyone thinks you're a cunt though. I pulled it off a couple of years ago when I went on a date with a frog called Paul Fruit. We snuck onto a barge that was delivering a shipment of magnesium down the Thames. The views were amazing and it made for a great date. I brought a bottle of wine (empty and full of ants). At the end I ruined it by falling into the river and having sex with a eel. 



Pancake Day (Shrove Tuesday) is the day which precedes Lent, a time of the year when you humans traditionally eat everything in the pantry and then stop eating for ages and ages because of Jesus. 
As I understand it, you take part in this farcical charade out of some kind of forced empathy. You do it so you can spend the rest of the year feeling like you understand what it's like to go without life's staple pleasures instead of feeling like a bunch of overfed, gluttonous cunts - which is what you are. You have no idea what it's like to struggle to find a meal. (Yesterday I ate egg fried rice out of a bike helmet behind PC World whilst I watched my mate Double Denim David pooing next to a van).
These days you lot go out and buy ingredients like eggs, milk and lemon especially for the occasion because your cupboards are full to the brim with Nesquik, gherkins, Kit Kats, Bisto, paprika, Dairylea Dunkers, Monster Munch and Cornettos and if you mixed all that together in a pan and ate it then you'd start to travel through time before vomiting it back up into your lap. You shop to excess and your cupboards are generally full of random old shit that will end up in the bin next time you move house. 
The weird thing is how much you all seem to like pancakes but only ever treat yourselves to them once a year (apart from Findus Crispy Pancakes, which you eat daily, but are it turns out, full of horses hooves - so they'll probably fall out favour fairly soon).
Point is, you're all spoilt rotten, and whilst you're drizzling Grand Marnier and orange zest over your crêpes suzette I'll be in the bins, using stuff up and basically keeping it real and traditional. The way it's meant to be. The way Jesus wanted, if he ever actually gave a shit about pancakes (which I doubt).

You're welcome to join me. Here's a recipe.

  • Collect berries (from Asda / hedge)
  • Regurgitate the eggs 
  • Come on. I don't think you're finished yet. You're still retching for goodness sake
  • Prepare the table (don't forget maple syrup if you have any cunts visiting from the USA)
  • Finish coughing up those damn eggs
  • Add the flour / soil and stir gently for 10 minutes
  • Milk (milk something)
  • Invite your guests. It'll be ready soon. Why haven't you invited them yet? Are you fucking stupid?
  • Add the sugar
  • You haven't got sugar?
  • Panic about the sugar situation. Start crying. Throw a tantrum. Blame Sexy Chris.
  • CALM DOWN! We'll use wasps. (Worth a bloody shot isn't it?)
  • Tell Vile Clive to calm down. It's going to be fine.
  • Flip the pancakes
  • Garnish and serve
  • Apologise profusely and wait for the entire evening to blow over.
Just met a pheasant called Jeremy slice. he was a cunt. he kept bragging about the length of his tail and telling me about the time he met gazza.