Yes, it's that time of year again: Valentine's Day is upon us. It is an anniversary that I have come to loathe with a passion that burns worse than a thousand suns.

On Thursday evening next week, hordes of canoodling couples will descend upon the nation's restaurants...

Be warned; this article was conceived on the 2 January and, as such, emanates from the mind of a gentleman whose insides then resembled the contents of a can of Pedigree Chum.

It all began when I decided to join a group of my most feckless and reckless chums on...

"What a surprise," I hear you all sarcastically scoff - "Matthew has sought shelter in that most idle of journalistic refuges: the end of year review."

In December, we writers are not required to compose a genuine article. We simply need to organise a meaningless -...

Most of us will be familiar with the magical properties of an espresso martini. It slides down the oesophagus with graceful conviction; your pupils flare and you feel suddenly buoyant. In summary, you are a god. Moments before you might have been lackadaisically prostrate atop a chaise-lounge, but one sip...

It causes consternation among 'real' musicians that, owing to recent advances in technology, every Tom, Dick and Harry can fashion themselves as a songwriter.

When I climb onto the tube each morning and begin tinkering with Garageband for the iPad, I can feel pairs of frosty eyes boring into...

It was only a matter of time until I summoned the courage to discuss my favourite topic of conversation - music and English grammar - or, to be more accurate, the lack thereof.

Many have often repeated Zappa's truism with echolalic precision, "rock journalism is people who...

There are only two instances when it is acceptable to wear sunglasses: either because it is actually sunny - a moment of such rarity in Britain that I can remember more lunar eclipses than days of uninterrupted sunshine - or because one is hungover.

The second occurrence is a...

I write this article whilst cogitating in a Dalston café, somewhat discombobulated, after another weekend of nocturnal excess. As I lick my wounds and prepare for a very serious session of feeling particularly sorry for myself, it strikes me that everyone around me must be an artist of some description....

To date, I have 625 followers precisely. It is a feeble, impotent number and I blush crimson with embarrassment when I dwell on it too much. The figure leers out at me from my iPhone, a constant reminder of my crippling inability to make virtual friends, let alone real ones....

It seems to me that frontmen principally fall into two categories: the cloyingly modest or the intolerably arrogant. Rarely is a perfect balance struck between these stereotypes and, more frequently, we find artists yo-yoing between the two like unhinged schizophrenics. Chris Martin seems to be particularly disposed to this tendency;...

My band, Kites, once had a slogan, which read 'All style; no substance'. At the time, this mantra was designed to be facetious. You see, I have unveiled contempt for performers who are so consumed by their own highfalutin that they forget to create a show for their audience. They...

I've lost count of the number of artists who loftily claim that they do not read their own reviews. Only last week Daniel Sloss (comedian) was asking why anyone should "care about what one bitter twat who gets paid to have an opinion...thinks?" Daniel is right, of course. Such an...