Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Come come Mr Bond...

As with any massive high, comes a crashing low. Which in many ways is totally standard. It's swings and roundabouts innit. If you were constantly buzzing you'd eventually have nowhere left to go as your nonce would eventually be bouncing off whatever ceiling you're under. Which, on trying to leave Sheffield earlier in the week, is the theory behind our collective missing of the train back to the smoke. After all that goodness, why let it carry on being so good when you can fuck it up for yourselves by indulging oneself in a flat white too far. Too much, too young. In our case we set about blaming everyone but ourselves including relatives in other parts of the world.

Whoever it was, it certainly wasn't us.

Desperately attempting to leave the Steel Citay...

View from the afternoon

Man-sized kebab

Format fusions

Having a great time

Having a really greatttt time

Wheels within wheels

Dreams can come true

Granny business


Wind your pooch's neck in. Babes

Festive munch

The grail

Santa Barber

Radicalising the moderates


Suge Knight the 2nd

Hello handsome. What's your name?




The chef

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