Up. Face like Jack Elam squeezing himself out from the dirty end of a six foot long, six-inch wide sewer pipe. Hair like the base of a belligerent Baillieston budgie’s cage. Voice like a castrated Sammy Hagar. Morning.
“Who knows where the time goes?”
This cool young dude is the Real Deal.
Rapier wit.
Rollercoaster plotting
And dialogue so sharp it could cut carbon.
When I grow up I want to be @callummcsorley.bsky.social
Up. Face like a Paisley plasterer’s Motorola flip-phone. Hair like a shag-pile rug in the squat of a 70s hippy Free Love commune. Voice like Bungle being force-fed chunks of dissected Zippy. Morning.
Up*. Face like an Etch-A-Sketch doodle of Marty Feldman, drawn by Lennie Peters. Hair like Telly Savalas’s UHU’d dome after an hour in a feather-filled wind tunnel. Voice like Les Dawson being repeatedly kicked in the balls by Red Rum. Morning.
*70s Celebrity Special
Fixing the rupture.👇🏻
Up. Face like the aristocrat formerly known as Prince tucking into cold grey porridge. Hair like a waxing clinic's used ‘Brazilian’ strips. Voice like a morose HR Pufnstuf: ‘who’s your friend when things get rough?’ Morning.
Up.
Face like Michelangelo’s ‘Davd’, not F Ross’s.
Hair like Pompadour-era Elvis.
Voice like Mahalia Jackson leading a celestial choir in ‘O Happy Day’
The goodest of mornings to ya.
Up.
Face like a demonic dermatologist’s carpet. Hair like half-eaten Shredded Wheat dropped on a rug. Voice like a lapsed WeightWatchers celebratory orgy.
Morning.
Up. Face like a determined Marty Feldman passing through the eye of a needle. Hair like the fraying ends of a Haight-Ashbury hippy’s jeans. Voice like a drunk R2-D2, chatting up a broken Dyson. Morning.
Up. Face like Stephen Miller in a hall of cracked mirrors. Hair, matted and wet, like DJT emerging from three days inside a Rostov-on-Don swingers gulag. Voice like a dove, about to be sacrificed for the ‘Board of Peace’ canapés. Morning.
Up. Face like an old man from Catatonia unable to understand why ice isn’t green. Hair like a taxidermist’s waste bin during grouse season. Voice like a yodeller’s convention afflicted by botulism. Morning.
Up. Face like the sunken, hollowed-out husks of an underfed, underwatered links golf course. Hair like a Highland bothy’s roof, thatched with the redundant wigs of a disgraced High Court judge. Voice like a Laurie Anderson single played at 78rpm. Morning.
Up. Face like a backstreet dermatologist’s carpet. Hair like a badly stitched surgical wound. Voice like the sound of an overflowing septic tank*. Morning.
(*a metaphor for modern day socio-political discourse)
ANNOUNCEMENT:
“David F. Ross Ltd has issued a warning notice that stocks of ‘Up/Morning’ descriptions are running low due to Trump’s anti-NATO Tariff measures. Words now require to be rationed and Pre-used repeat Ups may need to be deployed.’
Up.
Marty Feldman etc.
Morning.
Up. Face like Bagpuss’s stunt double in the film, ‘Bagpuss & The Chip Pan Fire Disaster’. Hair like it was cut and styled by Play-Doh. Voice like Bungle being force-fed chunks of dissected Zippy. Morning.
*today’s Up was sponsored by CBeebies new ‘after the watershed’ schedules.
Up.
Face like a masturbating Notre Dame gargoyle. Hair like the unkempt grasses of a Pampas plant, swaying in the wind outside an Airdrie house of ‘swing’. Voice like the busted carburettor on a demolition derby non-runner.
Morning.
Up. Face like the collective thunder of a ménage of anti-Meghan monarchists. Hair like the worn out tawse of a destitute Dundee dominatrix. Voice like the Armageddon alarm bell sounding. Morning.
Loved both, although my blood pressure was significantly elevated by the end of Marty Supreme.
Up. Face like I've just heard a new Anthrax LP. Hair like a brushed-up bucketful of Rod Stewart’s torn out extensions. Voice like Chewbacca chewing crack. Morning.
Looking back at SLR 2025: 1 single and 10 albums. 9 new releases, 1 comp, 1 reissue. 6 albums co-released with awesome labels/pals. 2 stellar debut albums, 1 fantastic reunion. 1 flexi, 4 tapes, 0 minidiscs. Counting the days to 2026!
slumberlandrecs.bandcamp.com
Up.
Face like a course of unanaesthetised root canal treatment. Hair, cut by a blunt Edward Scissorhands. Voice like Barbapapa with burst piles from a fall onto an upturned rake.
Morning.
Up. Face like the Ghost of Christmas Brexit. Hair like a glue-lacquered Greg(g) Wallace in a feather-filled wind tunnel. Voice like Michelle Mone’s conscience. Morning.
Up. Face like Zelda from Terrahawks after a ten-hour sauna session. Hair like a Trump-style combover of loft insulation quilt recovered from a Saltcoats skip. Voice like a helium-high Joey Barton guesting on Loose Women. Morning.
Up. Face like 340 million residents realising their country has been renamed ‘Trumpica’ overnight. Hair like Lady Liberty’s strands reshaped into a concrete orange combover. Voice like the redacted howls of protest dubbed to chant ‘Hail To The Thief’
Good Morning, America.
Up. Face like a rearranged Jake Paul jawline. Hair like the swept-up remnants of a Love Island aftershow party. Voice like a latter-day PPE Medpro investor. Morning.
There’s a kind of Caligula-type spiralling descent that Trump is displaying now, isn’t there? That whole ‘one of us’ mentality, but the ‘us’ is getting smaller by the day. Only the truly mad cultists or the self-invested back-stabbing opportunists are still about now, right?
Up. Face like a pug-nosed 60s bankrobber sheathed in American Tan. Hair like a typhoon-ravaged Arizona cornfield. Voice like Satan's bagpipes heralding the impending incoming of DJT. Morning.
Up. Face like....ach, fuck it! You leave everything lying at your arse. You never replace the toilet rolls. And the milk carton has a lid for a reason!
Fill in your own description in the space provided.
Face:
Hair:
Voice:
I’m sick fed up having to do everything for you.
Morning.