Me and my Big Mouth go to MacDonalds

Hi, this is Mark the Synth Master General marking his debut blog with a few typically pointless comments. You probably wont hear much from me, but thats only because my mouth fell off in an unfortunate trowling incident when I was a little girl. I still own a mouth, but I keep it preserved in pickle juice inside an old jar on top of the fridge. Mummy doesn't like me to remove the lid because she claims it smells like a compost heap made of sweaty socks. Then again, what would she know? Her nose is nothing more than a small dead guinea pig with the fur shaved off, such is the quality of modern NHS rhinoplasty.

I am very excited about this gig at Art Rocker, but not as exited as Gary- my mouth. I will have to keep him perched atop my keyboard in his pickle jar, a bit like Steve Martin's love interest in The Man With Two Brains, but with a microphone and shit.

I want to put a stylish Pete Doherty wig on top of the jar, and maybe apply some lipstick for that sexy art school look, but the gobby little prick called me a helmet and said he'd look well bent. I'm having issues dealing with this rejection if I have to be honest, and feel that Gary has forgotten where he came from, unlike J-Lo, who of course came from Yorkshire originally- as she insists on telling us all the bloody day. Maybe if I put some crack in his jar when he falls asleep after Trevor McDonald, he'll change his mind.

Its my birthday tomorrow. Me an Gary are going to have a joint party at McDonalds (the burger chain, not Trevor's gaff); the manager Mr O'Burgerlove says I can bring three friends to the kitchen to help operate the big machine they use to turn cheeky Mcmigrant workers into quarter pounders. Then we'll play musical chairs which is better than a bucketfull is gold sausages covered in Harold Bishop.

During Musical Chairs I wanted us to play the latest Bolt Action 5 tape that all the girls love, but Gary said everyone would get too upset when the music stopped, so he wants to sing old Stock, Aitken and Waterman tracks himself, to ensure peace is preserved and da kidz don't tourch da bitch ass joint blud. He promised to give me a little wink when he's about to stop singing, but I think Gaz sometimes forgets the fact that he doesn't have any eyes.

Still, I cant think of a better way to spend ones 24th year on earth, and if there is anyone out there that can, then god help us all.

Mark Murphy- "The man with one false mouth on his face, and one real mouth in a jar". (NME)