Whilst the beautiful rings of froth settle on your pint glasses and give onlookers and fellow table bookers and insight into how old you are just like the cross section of a tree trunk.... someone out there, somewhere is rejoicing over the return to the cafe and the shady dissection of what overpriced mid-morning concotion has distracted them enough to steer attention away from societies widespread and crippling collective caffeine addiction ☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️☕️

I for one thought that COVID may like it did to hope, handshakes and unity, also kill brunch. I thought that forced domestication and a wee recession would render us robots capable of making a cup of java and getting some well-paired nutrients fried together with eggs. But as these weekly ramblings make very clear, I am out of touch and often wrong (whether or not I choose to admit it, that is mine, my therapist and my publicans problem) 🍳🍳🍳🍳🍳🍳🍳🍳

Beyond the very name of the program, looking past the survival and thrival of brunch, these soft-boiled thoughts are meandering due to a harmonious meeting of Friday morning folk tomorrow. You may be familiar with how myself and my guest tomorrow sound, so I will offer you some insight into what it may look like behind the mic. Like when Federer and Nadal played doubles at the 2017 Laver Cup, an exhibition of family freindly shithousery and wide grins ensued. Or when Golem (me) helped lead Frodo (Milo) to Mordor (further Friday sleep deprivation). Or like the first sweaty and titanic montage of Rocky and Apollo Creed getting their jack on. The analogue and digital breakfast radio hosts have sent their delegates to the UN (Uncensored Nonesense) and whoever chose me to represent digital is an idiot because I showed up late and smelling like a 50's businessmen/an 18th century poet/an 17th century anything 🤝🤝🤝🤝🤝🤝🤝🤝🤝🤝

Milo Eastwood presents ScatRoom Killed The Radio Star