So the weekend saw us play our first ever headline tour. It was the Happy Huw Year Tour and it featured us, Swantom Bombs and Islet. We had a real blast as we took in the towns of Bournemouth, Bristol and London. All the gigs were packed out and the other bands really rocked especially Islet who we will be keeping a close eye on and waiting for there debut in the North East. We got up to all sorts of japes including stopping at services for sweets and pop and even having a can of beer or two…

I made a bit of a tour diary with the Flip cam I got from Santa Claus. have a butchers and tell us what you think.

Speak Soon

Frankie and the Heartstrings - Tour Diary Jan2010 from ,, on Vimeo.

Frankie x

I’m not saying I want to have my cock sucked in a toilet. In fact I’ll make my position clear here and now, I would rather not put my chucky in a gentleman’s mouth in a toilet.
Myself and fellow Heartstring (he’s the Heartstrings Heartstring in my opinion) had garnered a particularly unhealthy obsession with the public toilets apposite Sunderland beat eatery and pioneer of uranium fuelled coffee that is Louis Café. I should probably tell you a little about Louis café. Louis café is what all eateries and skinny frappacino Shoreditch hipster troughs aspire to be. So flagrantly and almost unbelievably pretentious that it’s a little difficult to believe that there isn’t some uber hip twatable crack fiend behind all of this formica brilliance. It remains the only place I know that pre cooks bacon rolls and then microwaves them on demand…..no-one complains….its fucking Louis; you’d be a dick to complain. Upstairs is a fish and chip restaurant that serves beer, although ive never ever seen anyone drink a beer in there. I once asked if they had a reasonable Chateau Neuf De Pappe, they looked at me like I’d wanked in the beef dripping. I hadn’t, but in hindsight I probably looked like a dick and they might have wanked on my chips, you live and you learn. Enough of this tish and fipsy, I have a tale to weave, a tale of dirty penises in local toilets.
So, once again myself and Michael find ourselves as cowardly social commentators sat on the lower level of the most unknowing bohemian stalwart this grey agnostic temple of dog shit has to offer. That’s what we did. Drank coffee and had a pop at the continuing array of dickheads, meatheads and scenster ballbags as they paraded by, never knowing that they were the victims of some razor sharp asides between myself and the ginger dream machine. If we were not absolute cowards and scared of pretty much everyone then we could honestly become full time verbal pugilists. But we are cowards so the very though is just fucking pointless. Society’s loss is our mumbling giggling gain.
Right fuck that I was talking about cocks, always give the people what they want.
Sunderland, much like any other city of little interest to anyone, is brimming with urban myth, fucked up characters in limbo with anything (themselves included); dickheads (mostly in bands/connected music (I don’t rule myself out here)). One such mumbling had foretold of a place……a place where like minded men could get together without inhibitions. A place where dreams are made, characters are formed. A place you can go and hang out with all the boys. 1 small room where you can hold your head high, then pop another fellas chucky in y’pyet and wiggle it about until his willy is sick. I think that’s what goes on, like I say I have yet to visit this welcoming gentlemen’s, well eatery I suppose.
Admittedly I can be a little vulgar. Massive swinging gammon style fanny……..see, its fucking easy. But, if you choose to get out of your comfort zone and look at things from a slightly different angle then the most amazing pieces of social tiffin are there for your enchantment. I’m no shit hippy, but if you look at a leaf long enough, that little fuckers are fascinating, like watching your hand on acid, really fascinating. Don’t try looking at Thatcher like this you’ll turn to stone because of the aids she will definately give you. I digress. So here we are playfully chatting about Sunderland’s least clandestine WC and the actual possibility of it being a social cocksuckery. I always like the fact that there is a place next door called chicken cottage. Irony, its all I have. So we watch and a chap enters. He is wearing a fairly non descript leisure wear style top, action slacks and has an unassuming bag for life style holdall. He’s in. Maybe he would like to point Percy at porcelain, crafty wash, chicken and mushroom form the Pie Shop and then home for Loose Women. He’s been in there a while. But I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. He could be dropping anchor at poo bay. But lord have mercy, another chap is on the naughty radar. This chap is slightly unkempt and would not look out of place on the Mexican version of crime stoppers, the fucker looks like a donkey rustler. Now I know that this place only has one cubicle, don’t question me, I just know it has. But, 2 guys 1 cubicle, he may be waiting. Alas no, within a 5 minute period that tiled den of Wilmot knows what was rocking to the tune of 8 assorted gentlemen (I don’t know how gentle they were). One at a time they file out. They leave gaps between their departure. Seems a little late to try and garner dignitary, but there’s Englishness in this I think. This makes me proud in the fucking weirdest way I have ever had the misfortune to experience.
It is a sad day when you have to move images from the urban myth file to the black reality department of what’s left of your brain. Imagine if you saw the Brazilian lady giving birth to tiny lobsters or saw some chap warning someone of an imminent terrorist attack because they had found his wallet. The fact is we don’t want things to be true all of the time. I don’t really want my life to have any truth in it at the moment, so I choose not to let the truth have its awkward little way.
The weeks have ebbed by and we have continued to make notes of the movements, patterns and odd activities of these fine illusion shattering battalion of bold brave men. I cant say I really understand it. The part we discussed was this. If your average meat headed, Peruvian sniffing, expensive knitwear wearing cunt has quite possibly alcohol fuelled intercourse with some naughty minx in a convenience in town, there is no problem. He is paraded around town like Jack the Biscuit, held aloft in his Sedan chair by 4 oiled men pumped up with steroids, which is obviously incredibly straight and harbours zero emotions as far as homosexual thoughts are concerned. That’s for you Mail readers aka bellends/my Dad. However, if you happen to of been fellated in a toilet in front of a dirty market selling rugs and pictures of Michael Jackson printed on a mahogany shield, well, you’re a fucking deviant.
I feel the only way to make an informed decision is if I try both.

Dave “Pearl” Harper