It's all meet, meet, meet.

                Good God, the bags under my eyes are heavy.

                We’ve got two very excitable people in our garden, sorting out the guttering and shouting about how ‘it’s like a fence at the Grand National up there.’ One has just passed through the living room/bedroom/everything room, and told me about how his favourite concert was when he went to see Pink Floyd in 1987. I’m sat cross legged on the bed, in my old lounge pants, wearing a stinky t-shirt, and so absolutely shattered that I’m talking in that low, groggy way that you do. I’ve also just woken up... Basically I appear absolutely wrecked, to the appropriately trained eye, and it’s only 9am.

                If I appear in a state of insobriety now, however, it’s nothing to how I was on Wednesday night – the whole band and a few other tag alongs had a big one to end a big day in old London town, popping between places where people wanted to talk to us about one thing or another. I think I ended up on one of my late night solo monologues – something which everyone I know has to go through with me at some point. When the sun is tucked up and the flow of the evening has trickled into an inlet, I always wonder how rooms empty out so quickly – usually right when I start talking. When the sun comes up, I realise what I’ve done. I walked home along the seafront in the wind and rain as punishment, mumbling ‘nonsense’ to myself. I flay myself publicly here, too. For shame.

                But the meetings were good. Very good, very enjoyable, and we got to see a lot of London. That’s all I can really say for now. I was going to write a bit about how I wasn’t wearing jeans, but instead a slightly lighter, brownish fabric that shows up liquid and splashes of water like nobody’s business. Going for a wee became a matter of very intense precision so as not to make myself look like a cow in the shade or perhaps a monotone Jackson Pollock (take your pick from those two). These things pop into your head when you’re meeting people. I’m not going to mention any of that.

                The men from outside have just gone. I always try and offer people tea, but after recent slips and...not needing any more mugs, we don’t have enough mugs. If I was to just make a drink for them in the one mug we own, I’d end up having to pick a favourite and, as every parent knows, that’s not fun. Essential, but not fun. I could of course have made them one cup to share between them, and then just put two straws in it. Well, they’re gone now. You live, you learn.

                So yes – things look good. Really good, actually. Apart from the crushing sense of shame and despair, I can look forward to the future a little. That’s rather novel. All the boys feel the same, as one or two raised glasses will testify.

                Right.

                They’re gone.

                Time to put the coffee on.

                Have fun,

                Tim

P.S. Come to this one, of course. Just don't invite me to any after parties.

                

Mo music, mo music, mo music.

Another week, another week.

It’s been social, it’s been fruitful.

Two new songs popped up out of nowhere (Trewin), which, as usual, put things in a mass of choice-al [made up word mine] crisis. It’s like Ed, Seryn, Jeb, and I are running naked through a forest (yes), skipping through the low-lying leaves and rubbing ourselves against the monkeys while Trewin, poking his blow gun out of a stealth drone, takes us down with sweet paralysing poison. We’re now on the floor, in the mud, all covered in drool and talking nonsense...and then the poisonous effects of Trewin’s darts take effect! (At that point I expected you to think that the drool and crap was to do with the darts, but then cunningly confound your expectations using ‘sentences’, which, if I was unsuccessful on my first attempt, I have surely achieved now.) WOOOGLADTOKNOWYOU

So the poison (songs) takes us off into a magical world of unreality (music) but leaves us still and shaking on the ground in cold jungle moonlight. Let’s just throw them all out, yeah? I don’t mean in the bin, I mean into the ether. Into the great beyond. Into the broad faces of those who love us. Let’s just bung them out and throw CDs like frisbees off the top of The Shard, hack the BBC news site and get the mp3s blasting out - changing all the headlines to things like ‘Jeremy Hunt finally sees moral and economic short-sightedness in non-specific Americanisation’ – making people happy and hopeful. Let’s slide our pieces through everybody’s letterbox. Let’s turn every streetlight into a projector, showing all of Jeb’s videos on a continuous 24-hour loop across the entire country for the rest of time. Let’s replace police sirens with ‘Once Again’, so anybody in trouble can just get a hug and be OK and then sit down with the police officer and have a chat and everybody can do the same and we’ll have a cup of tea, yes? Let’s have a cup of tea. And when the kettle boils it’ll sing a Phoria song. And Grandma’s slippered feet as she collects the kettle will play out a skittish little Phoria beat and she’ll dance and smile as a tear, rich with regained memories of hope, slowly forms in her eye, around which lays the cruel cartography of a life so hard until this moment. And  then the new octopus blasts a foghorn in her face.

And then we wake up. In the jungle. Trewin hovering around above us, having written another ten songs while we were comatose. And now we don’t know what to do.

But that’s OK.

It’s all very good news.

We’re very flattered to be mentioned on this blog list of the best tracks of 2013. Any list that has us at No. 1 above Arcade Fire and Beyonce is OK with us.

In other news, Jeb and I set up the band projector in our top-secret bunker the other night, and experienced this shotgun cartridge of a film:

I can only recommend you do the same (if you have three hours). It is a Friday, and all that.

Do stay well. Have fun.

I’m off to dig in the made up word mine.

Tim

Wh.oosp

I try and avoid all forms of activity, where possible.

Honestly, I’d rather stare blankly into space, thinking about nothing at all, than get up to make a cup of tea, or pull someone from a burning building. I’d rather sit and watch, and think about how I’d have done it differently, than actually do it. This is not so much a product of my own laziness, I tell myself, but in order to protect others from my often disastrously enacted actions. Like ‘fixing’ my neighbour’s oven.

After several internal band appeals, however, for someone to fix a private playlist on the ever useful Soundcloud, went unnoticed, I took it upon myself to fix it up, to make it all sprucely, to ‘sort it out’ as I believe the productive people say.

This is what led to what Ed correctly called ‘Soundcloud-gate’, the other day. In my haste to get back to avoiding all activity I accidentally rushed through the uploading process on three of the many tracks I was putting up, and made them public, which, unknown to me, sends out a blaring call on facebook for everyone to LISTEN TO THE NEW PHORIA TRACKS THEY’VE JUST PUT UP ON THEIR SOUNDCLOUD. 

Whoops.

Imagine my horror (I immediately realised what had happened, because, while I’m as dumb as the next man, I still haven’t read enough Government white papers  to have that level of fecklessness really rub off on me) as I sat and watched the play count rise over a period of about twenty seconds. ‘No worries,’ I thought, ‘I can quickly set these tracks to private and no-one will be any the wiser.’ I nipped one of them in the bud. One play on the play count. Whoops! Back to the main menu. What? The other two now have four plays. Quick! Another one bites the dust. HOW HAS THAT THIRD TRACK RECEIVED SIX PLAYS IN TWENTY SECONDS? Private. Done. Crisis averted?

Ring ring.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello Tim. Yeah, I’m just clearing up this mess you’ve made. How’re you?’

At first I thought it was the local sewer maintenance office, but it turned out to be Ed.

‘Did you know it comes up on facebook whenever you upload a public track?’

‘No.’

‘Well...now you do.’

So, some of you got a listen. Luckily, two of the tracks are ones that we’ve flirted with publicising for some time. Not too bad. They’ve been up on Soundcloud before.

One of them, however, was a brand new sprinkle of joy. The ‘new sound’. A track from the new EP. This was the one that received one listen.

There is one fan out there. One fan, among the many of you. One, real, person, with ears, who has heard it. Who knows what they heard? Did they like it? Did they immediately remove themselves from the facebook group having succumbed to the last straw, losing all patience? Did they ascend to a higher plane of consciousness? Did they go and live in the middle of the ocean, hoping never to hear another human-produced squeak?

We may never know.

What we can know, however, is that I subsequently went to Ed’s house, apologised again, thanked him, and then maimed him sorely at Tekken II.

He didn’t know that would show up here.

Aside from all the screw-ups and flip-kicks, we’re getting stuff sorted for showing you our big one at St. Pancras Old Church on 7thFeb. We’ve got the strings, we’ve got the vids...we’ve got the power. You should come. Tickets. They're limited and they are selling.

So, that’s it. Another week done. New Year’s is long in the memory, but never fear – something is just around the corner. I have no idea what it is, but it’s inevitable, right? I mean, that’s what corners are for.

Enjoy yourself. Have a nice weekend. Don’t step on any snails in the dark.

Tim

8:14, if you use the twelve hour format.

Goodbye then, 2013.

You were the year of Bloodworks, of Red, of Croatia, of Heaven, and that misunderstanding behind the bike shed.

You were a year of joy, of happiness, of getting no sleep thanks to the Auto-bahn, of swimming in Lake Bled, of that My Bloody Valentine gig.

You were a year of pain, of frustration, of nearly-theres, of not-quite-rights, of bumbling bundles and of misplaced bass notes that ruined the whole song but that’s OK nobody noticed oh no hang on they’re all looking at me just look at the keyboard and pretend you didn’t do anything wrong oh shit what note are we on oh god I think it’s an F# but if I’m wrong it’ll sound so much worse than it already is 1 2 3 4 1 2 3 4 OK it’s the chorus coming up just relax get back and retrack the phatness yes there we are.

Oh shit no that’s not it where the hell are we oh yeah we don’t play the studio version when we do it live that’s ok just dance like you’re really into it don’t go red don’t go red have a drink ok move your arms and stuff move your neck in a really jerky way that’s cool.

Oh good the gig’s over who was in the crowd? Oh shit oh well they probably didn’t notice because I covered so well oh no hang on I’m still in my house I didn’t leave the house well OK let’s play video games then.

Oh no I just woke up in the hospital apparently the crowd came up onto the stage and knocked me out for wrecking the gig that’s OK we didn’t get an offer from the record people but the WWE want me so at least I’ll be richer than these other fuckers who can’t even make it sound good when their bassist is playing all the wrong notes and knob out all over that shop.

Oh no they’ll probably read this now what have I said I must learn some self control .

We can’t wait for this year. Everyone’s feeling it. I don’t know if this is just a feeling that everyone gets at this time of year, and I’m just applying it to our situation, but still...I can feel it.

Hopefully you can, too.

I saw in the new year with some good friends, in the rain, all of whom were wilfully helping a complete stranger who had passed out in the street and was throwing up copiously on himself. Honestly, I preferred it to spending that moment in the company of sweaty-armed strangers, my beautiful face pressed against their pits, and getting the funny eye from that guy hanging around the bar, playing with his belt buckle.

But then, I have an odd sense of humour/the good life.

I’m tired.

More EP news, soon enough.

Have a good one. Get back  to it, and all that.

Tim