'It is with great regret that we announce the closure of Fopp.

Our store chain is profitable, well regarded and loved by our loyal customers
and staff. However we have failed to gain the necessary support from major
stakeholders, suppliers and their credit insurers to generate sufficient working
capital to run our expanding business.

We would like to thank staff and customers for their support over the past 25
years'

ENDS

A fopp spokesperson


*****PLEASE NOTE*****

PRESS COUNSEL HAVE NO FURTHER COMMENT TO MAKE AND AS IT STANDS ARE NO LONGER IN
COMMUNICATION WITH FOPP

___________________________
Well that rather chuffs the idea of Bearded getting a distribution deal there. Where am I going to buy my mid-price books and similar when I can't be arsed to go on Amazon now? Also, what's going on with that Press Counsel statement? Either Fopp's totally disappeared off the radar or they haven't paid their PR bills. Crivens.

I am going to Glastonbury in less than four hours. Despite the fact I spent the entirety of last summer sleeping in fields accumulating a new and interesting collection of bruises, I am still not remotely prepared. I have to go and buy a tent at lunchtime. I texted my old housemate at midnight last night to ask if he could bring in my old sleeping bag (he is). My dad brought me my ancient wellies in exchange for tax forms and my mum smuggled me in some socks, which my dad then smuggled back on discovering they were his cherished sailing socks. I didn't say it was understandable or, y'know, fair.

Rather like illness or small yappy dogs, Glastonbury has always seemed to me like something that happens to other people. It's big, so obscenely big I can't even imagine. People put such emphasis on having life-changing experiences there that it's actually rather off-putting. It has a huge ethos with it. I know lots of people who are going, all of whom are scattered over 100 acres, which amounts to none. I can't remember what to take. I haven't got any binliners (shit – go and get bin liners). I was in shops buying sunglasses and belts this morning and a very exciting t-shirt and a very exciting short skirt for when I have to start using mud as leggings. I went to my friend Guy's end of year exhibition at St Martin's last night (moment for Guy – he's TOTALLY in Vogue) and after a couple of drinks went home to bake cake and make disappointingly unhippie fudge to share with the people sharing my camping bit.

I STILL DON'T HAVE A TENT.

Oh God, I don't have a tent. How much do they cost? There's a tent shop about 10 minutes from work. It shouldn't cost a load because I'll leave it for the charity appeal at the end of the weekend, but it shouldn't be shit because then the kids eventually using it will have to sleep in a fibrous sieve.

The tent still doesn't exist.

Trousers. Shall I wear my nice black trousers and get them fucked anyway, or just wear my least-favourite eBay purchase all weekend until it's destroyed (coffee-coloured ball dress, too long, deserves to die in a gasping flood of soil). Either way my tent will inevitably drown in a flood.

I almost forgot there was actual music until Olly emailed me for my number to make snap decisions on bands to see. Good grief. Bjork should be very good at least, and I am actually wetting myself at the prospect of seeing Burly Chassey roll those r's around Diamonds Are Forever.

Whinge whinge whinge. Glastonbury happens to other people. It had better happen to me when I get there. Whinge whinge ungrateful ingrate grating whinge. Bloody hell it's like being a toddler again. I'm going to two other festivals this summer which will be fine. Why this one? Nobody (touch wood) is going to rape me. Or steal from me. Or drown me in a vat of good feelings.

I will most likely come back going "Oh my God it was AMAZING." However. If I come back talking about ethics and hemp, please shoot me and scatter my ashes on AA Gill's doorstep.

*Inappropriate insertion of Emily Big Brother-esque joke about leaving job in Soho here*

I've been commissioned to write a blog about giving up smoking. This is obviously brilliant, as I am going to be paid to rant about the pointless minutiae of my life, but terrible in that I really like smoking and don't particularly want to stop.

Also, I've never tried giving up before unless I've had a really horrible hangover or been too ill to even consider the idea of putting anything other than Vicks near my lungs, so I don't really know what to do. I've joined my quitters' group at work (dreadful: I feel like I'm signing up to Pariahs Weekly) and I expect there will be patches and motivational talks, but other than that I'm a bit stumped as to how to behave in the pub, at gigs, drinking cocktails, at parties etc.

I don't smoke during the day but have an almost magnetic fixation to cigarettes when drinking/in pub/at gig/after screening/at friends' houses etc and I'm not stopping doing any of that thank you very much.

The ban, which this blog is in aid of, will be a help, but even worse, that means missing out on the gossip and camaraderie that goes on outside. Damn.

Swishblog Chris's lovely girlfriend Helen has talked about her London marching band on and off for a while now and I kept meaning to follow it up in the mindset of someone who won't because they think that potentially Helen is mad. Helen is clearly not mad, because it turns out her band do amazing things like this cover of Gravity's Rainbow by Klaxons. Sadly it doesn't have a video, but Helen has made a proper slide show to go with it and, frankly, if the sound of a marching band with full brass and the like rocking out to the UK's premier indie-not-dance band doesn't inspire you, then you're a bigger fool than I.