Introduction
It is I! Wearer of Hummels, speaker of truths unto me, person with perception about which you are reading. Or in poorly translated spanish, La percepcion sobre que, tu estan leyendo.
It is true, that if I were a professional footballer (an issue we’ve covered in the past), the chant directed at me from opposition fans would probably go:
‘You still live at home, you still live at home!
You’re not a professional footballer, You still live at home!’
And it would be fair.
This post is really an update for all the die hard fans of Mr Hummels, that is to say a vent for Mr Hummels.

Firstly, on the passing of Mr David Bowie. I was truly saddened to hear about this. As children, Mr Hummels and his brothers would jump around their garage listening to Starman on vinyl, thankfully we were light and didn’t disturb the record. (Later, the record player was moved on top of a large, sturdy, old bookcase which couldn’t be disturbed.)
He was an art behemoth who truly captivated and captured the imagination. Mr Hummels regrets to inform the readership that he isn’t very old so the Bowie he does know comes from curiosity and dancing and such like. (Editorial: Mr Hummels admits he wouldn’t care to be any older, ever.)
Bowie’s ability to use persona and built characters clearly influences and inspires the elusive Mr Hummels.
His last album ‘Black Star’ is Bowie, or Jones, singing as himself. It is a truly grounded and also stratospheric reminder that we are mortal. Not in the geordie sense.
I could rabbit on all day about him, I was very fond of the person he appeared to be and the art he created. You probably don’t care in that you have read hundreds of pieces about him already, either that or you are a cold, callous, apathetic wretch.

Next point of address, or Secondly, I would like to raise and question the direction of this publication. I will do this in two parts, that is to say the first will be II.i and the second II.ii, this being the second paragraph.
II.I
Recently, it has come into question whether deciding to make promises to oneself regarding wishes for oneself (i.e the frequency of posts on a otherwise casual hobby website) due to the turning of year in the western calendar (Jesus, 0000. The West et al,. 2016.)  is a good idea. The new years resolution, as it is known in common parlance, is of course, a terrible idea. Especially if one decides to ‘celebrate’ other arbitrary western traditions around the same time (see Christmas.) All this celebrating leaves quite a lot of worrying to be done come normal time, and this normal time worrying impacts on any plans to fulfill resolutions.
It makes everything seem like a fucking disaster.
So as we rear our collective heads from the sands of worry and drunken fag ash, observe that the sand we had our head in just a moment earlier is actually part of a greater desert. The desert of time, the sands of which are now slipping slowly into a void of black and unending darkness.
Observing these sinking sands, it is clear now that one cannot dictate to thineself if and when one should partake in the dilettantism that is the international mega-hub, Mr Hummels. Instead one should worry more. Example worries may include; Is this desert part of an Egg timer mega structure, which, if turned will have me live again, or, repeat my current life again, yet backwards? What is the point of it all? Where did all the time go? (Philosophic worries are not necessary, worries may also include the mundane, such as; Why don’t I have any money? Why do I keep spending all my money? Will I have time to clip my toenails later?)
II.ii
So, with the rather gloomy cloud that is ‘New years Resolutions’ now victim to our deforested desert of mortality, never ending uncertainty and quite probably, doom, we can progress.
The progression, which is seemingly inevitable, regards the direction of Mr Hummels. Mr Hummels is a a format challenging super-inferno-giant. In the past we’ve tackled anything from art and culture to minute by minute analysis of hair coloration. However, it now seems blatantly obvious that this is no longer required. All these pretty, young, clever individuals seem to be out there challenging the zeitgeist that Mr Hummels both built and smashed. Previously, before the explosion of ‘zines’, Mr Hummels may have been considered a ‘zine.’ This is wholly fair, given that we didn’t really know what it was. Now however, every man and his cat have a ‘zine.’ And in this paradoxical world where hipsters live that makes perfect sense. The zeitgeist challenging colab with you and your funky friends is the zeitgeist. Silly Tattoos. Zeitgeist. Wear what you want. Zeitgeist. Man bun. Zeitgeist. Fixie bike. Zeitbike. Coffee shop, topshop, hip hop, beiber pop. Zeitgeist. Zeitgeist. Zeitgeist.
That impromptu free poetry will be my last and will function as the perfect introduction to some exciting news.
Mr Hummels is to be a lads mag.
Last of the lads mags.

This news will be followed by a short film in which Mr Hummels may or may not reveal parts of himself. Wink, wank.

Said film should be oscar nominated. Mother fuckers.
The last statement may or may not pertain to the race of Mr Hummels.