'Vampire, Hold Me Tight' THE MIGHTY STEF! WITH A SORTA HALLOWEEN-THEMED SONG!

'Each bite I take, it brings me closer to death...'

Irish bluesy rockers The Mighty Stef, the awesome band fronted by the awesome Stef Murphy, with their sorta Halloween-ish track "Vampire., Hold Me Tight". Which I post coz it is Halloween and it talks about vampires.

AND COZ THE MIGHTY STEF ARE AWESOME. Not well enough known outside of Ireland, Stef Murphy has already recorded with Irish music legends such as The Pogue's Shane MacGowan and the late, great Ronnie Drew who helped revolutionise traditional Irish music with The Dubliners.

The track is off their latest album, Year of the Horse, which is getting them some attention. The band are frequent tourers of Europe and the US, playing with the likes of Flogging Molly and plenty of others, and for GOD'S SAKE I WISH THE BASTARDS WOULD COME TO AUSTRALIA! 

Anyway... here is a great acoustic version of the track:



'...and in my blackened windows, I pray that the sun might shine...'


BONUS MIGHTY STEF SONG



'Well it;s getting to the stage that I always knew it would, that I can;t walk down my street.. I'm getting death threats  here, death threats there from everyone that I meet...'

Five Great Christmas Songs...

Christmas is one of those things you can't actually stop, so you might as well write decent songs about it. I gotta say, though, as we are on the topic, my Christmas came early -- on December 23 when the whole of Wanderland was jumping and singing as the Western Sydney Wanderers demolished the Central Coast Mariners, who had the sheer *gall* to beat us in last season's grand final.

The *true* meaning of Christmas! Wanderers players celebrate with the fans after their 2-0 defeat of the Mariners! Check out Shinji Ono's hat! Christmas is red and black!



But you know, not everyone was at Wanderland in Parramatta on Monday night to experience such GLORY so here are five Christmas songs I think are worth fucking hearing. I'd say "The Top Five Christmas Songs Of All Time That You Really Must Hear Right Now!", or some other shit, but FUCKING BUZZFEED HAS KILLED THE LIST! THIS YEAR, THE LIST HAS JUMPED THE SHARK AND THE SHARK JUMPED UP AND ATE THE LIST!!!

So I will simply call this "Five Great Christmas Songs" and you can do with that what you will. Here they are as a YouTube play list.

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Five Great Christmas Songs

5) Merry Christmas From the Family -- Robert Earl Keen



"Mom got drunk and Dad got drunk ..." Texas country singer Robert Earl Keen's tale of a gloriously drunken, messy family Christmas.



4) Grateful for Christmas -- Hayes Carll



"I wish I had a drink or maybe a dozen ..." Writing a sweet Christmas song without making it unbearably saccharine is a really hard task. It takes a songwriter and performer of the quality of Hayes Carll -- *another* Texas country singer -- to pull it off.



3) Shit Christmas Without You -- The Mighty Stef



"Sometimes love don't do the things you want it to..." The Mighty Stef is a severely -- even tragically -- underrated bluesy folksy rocking powerhouse, and this song introduces heartache, lost love and a nostalgic romanticism to the festive season. It also references song 1) in this list.



2) Christmas Card From a Hooker in Minneapolis -- Tom Waits



"Hey Charlie, I'm pregnant..." Continuing with the nostalgic romanticism, here is a great live version of Tom Waits' classic from 1978's Blue Valentine. From that great opening line to its killer final line (which I won't quote in case you've never heard it before), it is a blinder. In other Tom Waits Christmas news, here is a song by Roy Ivy that parodies a latter-day Waits style of song called "A Tom Waits Christmas".



1) Fairytale of New York -- The Pogues



"It was Christmas Eve babe, in the drunk tank..." What can be said about this asides from the indisputable fact it is not just the best Christmas song ever, but one of the best songs of all time full stop? Very little, so here is a different version by the great Irish folk singer Christy Moore.

'This website style is perfect' -- what some of the discerning spammers are saying about this blog

You know, here at "An Alcoholic's Guide to Modern Life", we don't like to blow our own trumpet. Or any trumpet. Or indeed any wind instrument of any kind as the damn things just get in the way of drinking our beer. We *do* sometimes like to refer to ourselves in the third person to make ourselves feel important, but that aside, we are generally pretty GODDAMN MODEST.

And so fans of this blog may have noticed, with some surprise, a paucity of published comments. The reason for this is simple. I *do*, as may be expected of such a high quality blog, actually get quite a large volume of comments. Unfortunately, the large majority of them are simply *embarrassing* with their praise of the *brilliance* of this site. I just really don't feel *comfortable* letting them up, with their "you're so great" and "this is the best site ever" sentiments.

BUT then it struck me I was being unfair to those who leave such comments. They are so often hard-working salespeople who take time they can barely afford off their relentless quest to make ends meet to point out their love for this blog. And leave their various websites hawking their various products. As is only natural.

It struck me that, as *plain embarrassing* as I find their comments, by refusing to publish them, I am denying *you*, the fan of this blog, the opportunity to access the websites and products of other fans, and quite possibly am in breach of some "restraint of trade" act or other.

And so below, I provide a selection of TEN RECENT COMMENTS left on this site -- with the websites -- to say THANK YOU for all the kind words.


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On February 12, Anonymous wrote on my brilliant piece of (sadly ignored) political advice to the now former NSW Labor government: "Thanks foг finаlly talkіng abοut > "'Drink motherfucker, drink!'; or an alternative way forward for the NSW Labor government" < Liked it!" And added "Here is my web site ... bеst paуday loans".

Anonymous, meanwhile, spoke for many people on February 10 when they said of my famous first post for 2013: "I am suгe this parаgraph hаs touched all the inteгnеt usеrs, its rеally rеally pleasant". They don't specify *which* of the many paragraphs so moved them, but let's face it, it pretty much applies to them all. Anonymous has their own "home page" entitled 1 Month Loan. Be sure to check it out, they clearly have great taste so it is bound to be worth your while!

On February 6, Anonymous was moved to write under my advice to the late NSW Labor government: "The website style is perfect, the articles is really nice : D. Good job, cheers". They have their own website, *also* called 1 Month Loan, which seems quite a popular name. It sounds confusing, but I am sure people of such obvious intelligence find a way to work it out.

On February 6, in a comment under my brilliant dissection of Sheryl Crow's "All I Wanna Do Is Have Some Fun" as a repsonse to the crisis of late monoply capitalism, Anonymous noted, "this aгticlе іs actuаlly a pleasant piece οf ωгitіng, keep it uρ". Anonymous suggests you check out their website for useful advice on how to stop snoring. Is snoring a problem for you? Then check it out! It is clearly run by someone of great intelligence and taste.

Meanwhile, another grateful fan called Anonymous took the time on February 5 to comment under the same piece: "I аm genuinelу ԁelighted to glance аt this webpаge poѕts whiсh contаіnѕ tons of helρful facts, thanks for provіding thеse kinds of datа." Their site: planetside 2 hacks.

On February 3, Anonymous, who maintains a website dedicated to the university of alabama school of medicine (and it is good to see *someone* does) commented under my most popular blog post ever on the crucial question of Shane MacGowan's teeth: "Simple but very accurate info… Many thanks for sharing this one. A must read article!"

And, oh dear this one makes me *blush*, but Anonymous wrote on January 29 under the same article: "What i don't realize is in truth how you are now not actually a lot more well-appreciated than you may be right now. You are so intelligent. You realize therefore significantly in the case of this matter, made me in my view imagine it from a lot of various angles." Oh get out! Be sure to check their blog loansforbadcredit52.co.uk.

And then, once again on the NSW Labor piece, Anonymous offered on January 29 this piece of very encouraging feedback: "I don't rеalize whο you're however definitely you are going to a famous blogger in case you are not already. Cheers!" While I find it hard to believe they have never heard of *Carlo Sands*, nonetheless their recognition of my inevitable to rise to fame (and, indeed, WORLD DOMINATION) suggests it would be well worth your while to investigate their loans for bad credit site.

On January 23, Anonymous, who also runs a site for bad credit loans (and it is heartening that so many of those those who dedicate themselves to such a socially useful service appreciate my work) left this simple message: "booκmarked!!, ӏ гeally lіkе your sіte!"

And finally... "Wonderful work!", Anonymous wrote on January 18. "That is the type of information that are meant to be shared around the net. Shame on Google for now not positioning this put up upper!" Indeed. I am not usually a conspiracy theorist, but the only reason I can come up with for this travesty is the Global Elites are just too damned *scared* of Carlo Sands to let that happen. Which makes this comment all the braver, so be sure to check out their site Ghd IV mini styler.


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Well... all I can say is THANK YOU for *all* for your kind comments! Let me show you what I feel about *you* with a clip of a live performance by The Mighty Stef of his truly heartwarming tale "Poisonous Love". (I don't like to boast about these things but The Mighty Stef *did* retweet my *last* post about the song he recorded with Ronnie Drew, so he obviously combines musical talent with a fine eye for genius bloggers.)






"You've soured all the blood that once ran lively in my veins ... in Heaven or in Hell I pray I won't see you again...." The Mighty Stef expresses my deep feelings of love for all the spammers and their kind words.

First blog post of the year! So here are random thoughts on drugs in sport and a song featuring Ronnie Drew, The Mighty Stef *and* Flogging Molly's Dave King. Fuck yeah. Buy me a beer sometime.

Well, so it seems it has somehow gotten to February and I have not posted *even once* so far in 2013. So I figured I'd better give my multitude of fans something pretty special... and what could be more special than a song featuring pretty highly specialised acts that I am obsessed with but almost no one else I know really gives a fuck about? HUH? HOW ABOUT THAT?

I mean, I shouldn't have to apologise really, as I have been *pretty fucking busy* this year. Destroying a liver takes more time and effort than maost people realise. Plus I got my Green Left Weekly Carlo's Corner columns to write, like once a fucking week! Like seriously, my latest column -- taking up the key issues facing this country of climate change, corporate profiteering and David "Kochie" Koch -- was more than *840 words long*! Fucking exhausting.

And then in what little spare time I have, I have been singing for the Western Sydney Wanderers, as all decent human beings do, and crying for the Essendon Bombers. The best thing that can be said about the drugs scandal that Essendon may find itself at the centre of is it has the potential to also bring down Manly. It might not stop there either, given the release of a damning ACC report. So let me start very clearly: *should* the scandal of drugs in sport limit itself to the destruction of CARLTON, MANLY and SYDNEY FC, I for one welcome it. (Essendon, however, should be off limits on grounds of... um... being Essendon.)

Regardless of these entirely understandable reasons, I am only too away of just how painful and distressing my multitude of fans find the absence of blog posts. So while I am in the midst of preparing my magnus opus on the issue of our times (Tom Waits), I nonetheless offer you all this wonderful gem of a song -- in which Irish singer-songwriter The Mighty Stef teams up with the legendary Ronnie Drew of The Dubliners and Dave King and Bridget Regan from the Irish American celtic punk band Flogging Molly.





The song is The Mero, written by Pete St John, who has written many Irish folk classics (most notably Fields of Athenry). The song is about Dublin and growing violence plaguing the city. You can read a little bit about the slang and characters that feature in it (and the lyrics) here.

I am not sure when this filmed, but it was clearly right at the very end of Ronnie Drew's life (he died in 2008). Ronnie Drew is a genuine legend of Irish music, his ability to use his voice (once described as "the sound of coke being crushed under a door") giving emotional potency to the songs he sings. Below, he sings another Pete St John classic about Dublin.




"The years have made me bitter, the gargle dims my brain." Tell me about it Ronnie...



The Mighty Stef? Well, he is a seriously underrated performer (at least in Australia, where "not rated at all" would be more accurate). He has three studio albums under his belt and has also recorded with Shane MacGowan. Check the bastard out, in a track that speaks to me deeply...




"It's getting the stage I guess I always knew it would, where I can't walk down my street. I'm getting death threats here and death threats there from every one that I meet..." The man is singing my song.



And Flogging Molly... are just one of my all-time favourite bands. They don't miss. Their songs cuts a lot deeper than some of the drunken bravado that makes up some of the Celtic punk genre (*cough*Dropkick Murphys*cough*). There is a real weariness to their songs -- a sigh that says "Well life pretty much has me beaten, but fuck it, I can still raise my pint glass and sing." I rate their song The Worst Day Since Yesterday one of my absolute top songs of all time. To see them in full flight doing their stuff... see the clip below.





"You drink too much coffee, I drink too much stout..." So very true.



So, no need to thank me. Just buy me a beer -- via the PayPal button on the right-hand side. Or... hell, why not also check out my stand up clip at Five Minutes Live and click "like" if you like to help me win the online comp, based on the most "likes", and FIVE THOUSAND BUCKS. Then I'll buy *you* a beer!*

* Offer only eligible to people called "Carlo Sands".

In defence of the gutter

Well, it is there right under the big fucking slogan that reads: "An Alcoholic's Guide to Modern Life". A further statement. It reads: "We are in the gutter, but some of us enjoy it."

Now this statement, which I am told is a "play" on some sort of thing some prick called Oscar Wilde once said, was not actually something I personally came up with.

It was something that was once said about Carlo Sands by someone who, for reasons that escape me, calls herself "Amy".

The details of how it came to be said are a little hazy, but I believe it involved Canberra and a bad hangover.

And it is an accurate enough summary of the ideology, nay philosophy of Carlo Sands.

But I would, on reflection, go further and state: "We are all in a gutter but some of us DON'T EVEN FUCKING REALISE IT!"

No, some of us live in denial. Some of us think we can escape the gutter. And they think this is an easy task and one to be actively pursued.

The way you do this is you go some place to do your drinking, as we all must, that involves a greater wanker-per-head ratio than, say, some place with no one else there.

These places, for reasons that completely escape me, are usually full of people. And the way you can tell this is a place that its inhabitants think is above the gutter is, as well as the unseemly crowds, that the fucking beer costs more.

And sometimes, it even comes with a twist of some sort. Like if you hand over to the poor, overworked bastard behind the bar twice the cash for a standard beer, they'll kindly throw some fucking tabasco sauce into you beer for you.

You know, just for fucking kicks.

God knows why anyone would drink beer with tabasco fucking sauce in it, unless they were being force-fed it in Guantanamo Bay in the latest horrific torture technique invented by the Land of the Fucking Free as part of its bid to spread democracy one poor fucking tortured concentration camp prisoner at a time.

But apparently, the very possibility of ordering such a monstrosity, such a crime against humanity in blatant violation of the Geneva Conventions, is a sure sign you have taken a step out of the much-maligned gutter.

You know, as opposed to all those places that just serve fucking beer straight without the foresight of offering, for a just few extra hard earned dollars, a dollop of hot fucking sauce that renders your beer undrinkable.

And the worst thing about such places is they are never located anywhere fucking decent. By which I mean, located somewhere not overridden by fuckwits and wankers.

And yet, such places, in locations overridden with prats (to say nothing of very uptight bouncers) are considered, in some way, to be a step up from some dive in nowhere in particular.

That is, nowhere overrun by prats. Or, indeed, much in the way of anyone else.

And seriously, what is it with the bouncers in these areas? All you want is another fucking drink and you can't walk in to some place without being harassed by some meathead asking very impertinent questions, such as: "How much have you had tonight, mate?"

Ah, how about you mind your own fucking business is what you want to say. Or, clearly not enough as evidenced by the fact I am trying to walk into another fucking pub.

But you don't say that, because your chance of another drink is dependent on the goodwill of the giant slab of beef with an earpiece asking the question.

So you try and sound coherent and mumble something about "maybe a couple" and you get refused entry by the coked-up, steroid-ridden monstrosity who sees fit to judge your drug use.

That is the sort of neighbourhood where you find these "beer-with-tabasco-sauce" joints.

And, apparently, this is a step up from the gutter.

Well here is the thing. It really, really isn't. It is still the fucking gutter.

It is no less the gutter than some near-empty squalid pub with an old, drunken, redfaced Irishman behind the bar who insists on playing Kenny Rogers "The Gambler" on repeat on the jukebox.

It is still the gutter, only with more wankers in your way.

You can't escape the gutter. Not by choosing a different joint to try and kill the pain of late monopoly capitalism in.

The gutter is where we live. It is the place we are assigned to by our benighted rulers. Who, by the way, also live in the gutter — only with much more expensive booze and better views.

Or, in the case of those puppets the rulers like to pretend are allowed to rule, in Canberra.

The gutter is life in this society.

And by all means "look at the stars", as that absinthe-drinking Irish bastard once said.

Which means, as Wilde himself spelled out in The Soul of Man Under Socialism, dare to imagine a different society is possible, one in which we are not enslaved to some form of degrading labour, not alienated, not subjected to the horrors of war, exploitation and Justin Bieber.

And by all means, organise to overthrow this fucking system that threatens total destruction of all life on Earth.

Carlo Sands is for that. Hell, I even started the important work of scoping out a potential wall to put the motherfuckers up against.

But, within this nightmare, it is all just a nightmare.

That is why people drink, no matter how many times the government, who are all fucking alcoholics, or the media, who are all fucking alcoholics, warn us about the dangers of alcohol abuse and come up with insane, laughable formulas about four or more standard drinks is binge drinking.

There is no "step up". There is no "better class of joint". There are only more expensive drinks and more wankers in your way at the bar.

What do you need from a pub? You need available booze and a place to sit and talk to a small group of people about shit to in a bid to forget about the nightmare that is the world.

And maybe play a game of pool.

The best thing a pub can be is close. That is the best characteristic a pub can have, after "cheap" and "not overridden with wankers".

The worst argument that can be made is that going to some joint located in the middle of some wanker-ridden suburb is it means you have "more of a social life".

Jesus fucking christ, you want a social life go see the fucking theatre. Go and watch the goddamn ballet. Get up at 6am on a Sunday morning to join a bushwalking society. Go to flower shows.

But if you just want a drink to relax and forget the world, then just go and have a fucking drink. And pick your company with care.

But do not engage in illusions, nay delusions about where you chose to do your drinking.

And if you must enter one of these hubs of wankery, of pratness — let's pick a place at random and say Newtown/Enmore — then it is much more enjoyable if you assault the place in the company of someone, let's call him "Ben", who has been drinking goon all afternoon and is staggering up the street to the pub dressed in a suit for no reason other than he has been drinking goon all afternoon and it seems a good idea.

And, in between some decent, coherent discussion on the relative prospects of the Bulldogs or Bombers in the 2011 Premiership Season, you have to try and convince him that stealing one of those big, moveable heaters is not wise, nor is it advisable to stop random passerbyers to ask whether they like to wear condoms or just shout out, to the beer garden, "Woopha!!!" every half-a-minute.

You get to test out important life-phrases such as "C'mon Ben, don't do that..." and "for christ's sake Ben, SHUT UP!".

And wonder in amazement at how long it takes before the bouncers make their way over to advise that leaving sooner, rather than later, may be in everyone's best interests.

And at the fact it took some bastard at a nearby table to rat Ben out to the bouncers after he hid an empty jug in some bushes to pick up on the way home — especially as he completely forgot he put it there anyway.

And that he scored a free glass when, after the bouncers' "time to leave" message, he staggered out of the premises with half a schooner in hand - only to find out later it got confiscated five metres down the street. But, anyhow, it didn’t matter as he had another stuffed in his inside suit pocket he had forgotten about but discovered to his surprise the next day.

If you must drink in these places, best approach it in such a way.

But ok. I mean, you know, what difference does it make? Drink where you fucking like. It doesn't matter, you know, just drink.

But don't pretend where you drink is any better than anywhere else. It is still just the gutter with some fucking booze on tap. And *that* is all that fucking matters.



"Nine-to-five is eating us alive, eating us alive. We're not kings, we are footsoldiers. We are walking the road to nowhere ... Is there any other place for us to go? Or is there even anywhere we know? No, no, no, no ..."

It's fucking Christmas, pass the fucking booze

Apparantly, it's Christmas time. There is only one thing for it. A true country Christmas...



"Mum got drunk then Dad got drunk at our Christmas party..." Robert Earle Keene provides the guide to surviving this goddamned ode to the dysfunctional family system and insane consumerism killing the poor, godforsaken planet.


And you might as well listen to this song from the Mighty Stef, toosimple because I'm in a Mighty Stef mood.



"They say way down in nelligan's, they say there is a ship wreck for every soul in heaven and for every soul in hell. For power, greed or money, do not sail the devil's waters, for on the devil's ship, the devil rings the devil's bell..."

We want blood...

"We want blood! (we want blood), We want blood! (we want blood), let the scarlet red river turn our cities into mud..."

Finally, someone has stood up and said what needs to be said. And that someone is the great singer-songwriter from Dublin, The Mighty Stef (born Stefan Murphy).

The Mighty Stef aims his rough-as guts, drunken, impassioned, bluesy musical guns at the Irish government and calls them out for what they are: fucking lying thieves.

Having turned those parts of the Emerald Isle not still occupied by the British into a happy hunting ground for corporate plunderers (corporate tax rate lowered to 12%), when the good ship Corporate Plunder ran aground, the good people in the Irish government gave them 70 billion euros.

I mean, seriously, they gave it to them. It was not a loan. They wont have to pay it back. Just "there you go, you cheeky scamps, don't spend it all on lollys".

And these are the sort of people who wouldn't give a beggar a buck in the snow.

I mean, I was personally a bit strapped for cash a year or two back and I asked Brian Cowan himself if he could lend me a few bucks for a few pints in his nation's lovely pubs.

Well, the reply I got from his personal secretary's staff clerk's assistant's secreatary is not printable even on this blog.

Hell, I was only trying to do the bastard a favour. The economy clearly badly needed a stimulus package to get it back up and running and nothing stimulates an economy like a Carlo Sands' drinking binge.

But no.

But a bunch of goddamn fucking thieves in suits who fucked the economy up in the first place give him a call and next thing you know its 70 billion pounds from the public coffers straight into the veins of the profit junkies.

And it all gets blown on debts and speculation. Soon as they get the cash, it's straight down to their dealer round the stock market and whole sad and pathetic cycle starts again.

With the cash not being spent on anything *actually* productive or useful, far from saving the economy, it drove it further into crisis. Unemployment has tripled since 2007, numbering hundreds of thousands. Wages are 20% lower than three years ago.

Mass migration, that terrible feature of Irish history that has foisted morbid, miserable Irish folk songs on innocent people all over the world, is raising its ugly head once more.

And, after it all, the government has found itself a little strapped for cash.

The solution? Pay for the bailout of the parasites by squeezing the fucking people that *actually* do something useful in society, that actually produce something of social value: brewery workers and bartenders.

And the working class in general, they were just the first that came to mind.

The problem is it wasn't even the government's cash to begin with. It was money provided by taxpayers.

And the rich in Ireland generally don't pay taxes (do they Bono?).

So the government gives the rich the working people's cash. Then, it makes up the balance by making the working people pay even more.

It follwed this up by slashing billions out of social services, cut funds to education and hike up tuition fees, slash public sector jobs, reduce pensions and increase taxes for ordinary people.

But that was still not enough, because the Irish government claims it still can't pay its loans to... the FUCKING BANKS.

The solution? Well, "dear banks, get fucked" is the one understandably that struck most Irish people, who polls say back a default.

Instead, the government went crawling on its knees to the International Monetary Fund and European Union and got 90 billion odd euros in a loan at high interest rates, in order to burden the Irish people minus the six counties claimed by Britain with *even more* debt it never asked for. (But don't worry, the six counties claimed by Britain are having to pay for debts racked up by the British government for handing billions of euros to British banks.)

And in return the cash, the government will lose economic sovereignty and hand the running of the day-to-day economy over to IMF and EU bureacrats *and* commits to implementing *further* savage spending cuts and other neoliberal austerity measures - of the sort that helped cause the fucking crisis in the first place.

This, you might think, may make people angry. Well, the government is on the verge of collapse an some 100,000 protested in Dublin on November 27 at this state of affairs.

The Mighty Stef goes further: "Let the downtrodden rise with a fire in their soul ...how many times do you need to be told? We want blood!"

How to organise such a thing? I made some general suggestions on the issue of how to make the streets run scarlet red with the blood of the ruling class, followed by what may be best described as a "colourful" discussion in the comments section, in my post Could *this* be the wall?

But the practicalities are largely to do with Australia and the Irish people will have to find their own solutions. And, indeed, their own walls.

The Mighty Stef has rightly raised the issue and got the ball (if not yet the heads) rolling. And this from a man whose previous experience of protest songs was this effort in response to Ireland losing a football match to France in the "Hand of Frog" scandal.

But I like the Mighty Stef in general. Rough, raw and drunken... Irish, in other words. If you want to hear some more, here are three song suggestions (though I could list more):

Death Threats: "It's getting to the stage I guess I always knew it would, where I can't walk down my street. I'm getting death threats here, death threats there from everyone I meet..." Carlo Sands can relate, especially to the empty beer glasses in the film clip.

Poisonous Love: "I'll return, your jewelry, I'll return your keys. I'll return your records and your poxy DVDS. I'll give you back your innocence that you blindly gave to me, and I'll sink you to the bottom of the sea..." The Mighty Stef shows the mature way to deal with a relationship break up.

Waitin' round to die: "I came of age and I met a girl in a Tuscaloosa bar, she cleaned me out and hit it on the sly. I tried to kill the pain, I bought some wine, hopped a train..." The Mighty Stef teams up with Shane MacGowan to cover Townes Van Zandt's classic.

Or you could just get on with the task of spilling their blood.



"Coz I've heard all the lies that I'm ever gonna wanna hear... we want blood!" Accoustic fury this time.