ninehertz

Every year for Chrimbo, we would receive a bumper tin of Quality Street that, once emptied, would be used for storing cakes and biscuits. However, this wouldn't take place until the tin had been emptied of the coffee creams and green noisette triangles, which nobody likes. Fortunately, Rob has written the world a dirty great purple caramel hazlenut, all generous, velvety and gooey.

Lost In New York is somewhat reminiscent of the grittier end of the Christmas spectrum, such as the Pogues, Little Match Girl, Black Peter, Mental Santa and the Christmassy Die Hard where Bruce Willis goes "Yippee Ki Aye, Motherfucker!" and sets fire to a whole plane full of ne'er-do-wells and assorted baddies. WHOOSH - BOOM!

This treat-size banger is a wistful, sleighbell-driven waltz, in which Rob treats the family Christmas and the career of Macauley Culkin to his customary wit and wry observation. All the good Christmassy stuff like the shit telly, the "meat sleeps" on the sofa, Baileys and snow is packed into this choon. It really is terribly festive.

I played Juggers a snippet on www.myspace.com and she liked it, which is rare because I've played her plenty of tracks that all you motherfuckers have written and she pretty much despises all of them (apart from the Trebuchet album, which she dances erotically to). This, in itself, says something pretty special about what Rob has done in terms of sheer transcendance. If the choir of shouty Robs hollering the chorus at the end doesn't shaft this into the Top 10, I will chop my cock off. Truth.

The "First Noel" guitar solo makes me want to learn how to shred like an old skool pro and the chorus will get Gary Lagers and Betty Babychams alike at office parties up and down the land filling their mulled wine with spittle and tears as roofs (rooves?) are raised to the snowy skies. This is the sort of song that makes you want to chuck your arm around a large drunk man and bellow along like a cunt.

This is a great song played by a stupidly gifted and woefully underrated singer/songwriter with a tongue, like Hannibal's cigar, wedged resolutely in cheek. All proceeds from sales will go to giving the chidders at Great Ormand Street something to cheer about, which is what Christmas should be about really. So buy it. And get your mates to buy it too so you can give a cool guy, doing a cool thing a chance to make this a Christmas which isn't about X Factor, guff and cockoplasty.