Jaspers

It's summer but.. something's missing.. hmm. sun – check, beer – check, barbecues – check, Tim Henman losing at Wimbledon.. yeah, wait a minute that's it, WASPS! I don't know about you but I've seen hardly any this year!

And where are all the wasps anyhow? Have they been priced out of London too then? Not that I'm bothered, they were hardly key-workers in the accepted sense. In Manchester the advent of summer always brought with it the shadow of the wasp, who would be there before you at the beer garden (like Germans at the sun loungers, yeah), and almost certainly there after, hovering drunkenly round the last quarter inch or so of your pint of Stella. Wasps get pissed too, in all senses, especially in late summer when they're just looking for trouble, and should you get lary with them, they release a pheronome, so all their mates show up minutes later for a piece of the action. Truly, they were the bane of the sugary drink drinker's sunny afternoon, and universally disliked.

Seriously I reckon even Noah probably planned to ditch the wasps prior to the flood and it was only after he awoke the morning after setting sail to hear two rattling away behind his blind that he realised his scheme had been thwarted. Wasps posess the apex of that blind insect instinct to find their way into your room, through any hole – no matter how small, without being able to do it in reverse, even were you to demolish the wall of your house and attempt to usher them out with a jet turbine. I assume they navigate by the moon/sun like moths as they also have a tendency to fly directly into any lightbulb with a sound like someone training a dentist's drill on it. Eww that sound. I also remember wasps flying into my bedroom, perching on the lampshade and audibly crunching away on the paper (of course, this was before I got into listening to techno at artillery volume, so a wasp would probably have to be inside my ear now before I could hear such a thing). Terrible thought.

One thing about wasps is that pretty much everyone is united in their hatred of them. This blog here is like some kind of wasp genocide bulletin board:

"It’s us against them people. We can’t let the enemy take over our homes! I’ll let you know how it goes. Great stories!"

froths one contributor excitedly. Uh, ok, they are kind of annoying I guess.. Ever read Watchmen? One thing's for sure, if it turned out wasps were poised to take over the world, Osama Bin Laden, George Bush and Kim Jon Il would be united in their struggle agaainst the striped menace quicker than you could say "Yeehaw let's nuke those fucken yellerjackets!".

Anyway, here's my favourite wasp anecdote (you might want to save this for halloween, mind) Are you sitting un-comfortably? Well I'll begin:

I was back at my mum and dad's one summer whilst studying at uni. My brothers were in the two rooms next to mine. I awoke at about three in the moarning hearing an all but subliminal "WHHHUFF" sound from my brother Harry's room, punctuated by short panicky gasps of "shit!" coming from the lad himself.

Seconds later 'middle-bro' Dan awoke, and stomped into my brother's room..

"What THE FUCK is going on"

He roared.

What, it transpired, had happened was that a load of wasps had chosen to nest in the roof just outside his bedroom window. Now my brother liked to keep his bedroom window in summer (and bedroom light on), and perhaps unwisely, the presence of several thousand stinging insects just outside was not sufficient to deter him. You can perhaps guess the rest.. while he slept and under cover of darkness, the wasps let themselves in and my brother had an extremely rude awakening when a wasp crawling over his face decided to sting him on the cheek. The first sight to greet his no-doubt horrified eyes when he opened them was a roiling vortex of wasps circling beneath his room's naked lightbulb. Not to be deterred he rolled out of bed, grabbed a can of lynx and a lighter (cricket, clipper, who knows) and got medieval on those wasp's tapering asses.

Yes, that "WHHHUFF" sound was none other than a deodorant based flame-thrower my brother had hastily fashioned. A quick glance around his bedroom door the next morning revealed a war zone, with drifts of scorched wasps lying everywhere. It was like The Wasp Factory in there, or Aliens redux where the marines win. Those wasps fucked with the wrong guy alright. They sure got to know the true power of the Lynx effect.

Nowadays, I'd like to think I'm not too bothered about wasps. Live and let live, god's creatures etc.. and wierdly beautiful too, amongst other things* One swooped quite near me in Highbury fields the other week, and I barely noticed, honest!

But still, maybe it's the NIMBY in me, but I'm not sure I'd like some sort of government funded wasp farm in my back yard (even though it technically belongs to the landlord, Mr Spyrou, so he could do with it as he wanted I suppose).

Maybe I should actually try and sort my life out rather than posting blog entries about wasps at half eleven on a monday night. Who knows.

*critically important in natural biocontrol or course, thanks Wikipedia.

Photo copyright Alain Labat 2006

Rise

On Saturday me and Gridrunner headed North to check out the Rise festival at Finsbury Park. Can't either of us lay claim to coming up with the idea, but the man responsible – Ed, wasn't present as he and John had headed on a mission to Ikea in the dark heart of Croydon, and were presumably circumnavigating the winding path that wends its way through forests of flat-pack pine in all it's stores. Ed was also assuming the enforced air of radio silence that comes FREE! without a mobile phone. So we left without them.

It was aight, though..

For festivals to work for me a few things have got to be true.

Firstly there's got to be few of you. You've got mates yeah? Now's the time to show them off, as you saunter round drinking off-cool Red Stripe at three fifty a pop in a camouflage jacket and shades. Otherwise you feel like a bit of herb. Urban (what you call it?) festivals especially are where everyone and their Staffordshire Bull Terrier seems to come to hook up with someone else and their squat muscular pet.

You need to find somewhere and sit down. Plant a flag. Put down a blanket if that's your thing, but crucially, sit down soon and put down the plastic bag with the luke-warm wine cooler in and start interracting as normal. There'll be plently of time to go and buy some overpriced falafel or see some local crew, but for now, act as though you were sat in your local park on a particularly busy Sunday. Or you could have a plan, but personally, I feel all other festival plans are incidental besides sitting down somewhere.

It can't be too busy. Okay, busy enough, but not rammed. Notting Hill sounds like a great idea until you get there and realise it's like a bigger, louder, hotter, busier version of Oxford Street on Christmas eve. Two years ago Me Ade and Dunc fought unsuccessfully for the best part of two hours to fight our way to the mythical Norman Jay sound system, before finally giving up and shuffling around wearily next to the Trouble On Vinyl soundsystem playing out the back of a truck. Actually getting out of the place is the most terrifying prospect of all however, as you are swept along remorselessly in rivers of people. For me, no amount of saltfish can compensate for the fact that your free will is effectively circumvented by the whims of the million or so people squashed up in your face. If John Carpenter ever ressurects Snake Pliskin and the "Escape From.." franchise, the third one should be set here. Kurt Russel wouldn't stand a chance.

It's got to be hot. Ok not essential, and a bit of rain's quite fun actually, certainly no surprise, but put it this way – at least one or two of the previous rules need not apply if it's actually a blazing hot day. Shouty urban grime acts are prolific in London; sunny days less so.

Sadly, non of these cardinal rules applied to me and Ade. We arrived late, unwashed (me anyway) and jostled through the thronging crowds. We had arranged to meet Ed by ringing his housemate John but there was no network coverage. The sky was the colour of grey milk, and the atmosphere moderately torpid. Most of our time was spent queueing for things, and wandering round clowning around whie Ade took pictures of beer bottles and reflections of bins in my shades.

Eventually we went to the the Finsbury pub across the way and sat out front with a pint. In a rare moment of synchronicity, a couple who had been sat a table away in the Hermits the night before were also there, two tables away. It got cold, but I couldn't be bothered going in the pub as the footy was on and Gary Linneker's face was leering, big brother style, from every screen in the joint.

Went home via Oval and got some food from the Silver Lake, opting, on the Chinese lady's suggestion, for some Malaysian style Mackerel. Very nice. She also showed me a laminated A4 photo of a bearded Kenneth Brannagh, thesping it up out the front of the shop.

Then went and watched 'Live Flesh' round at Ed's, before going home to sleep. The end.

Stuff

What have I been doing.

Last thursday I went on a sort of date thing with someone I met off t'internet. It was an experience I don't think I'm going to repeat any time soon. Nice enough, but I couldn't quite get over how out of sync she was with the mental picture of her I'd built up in my head. We went for a drink in Camden, before making mutual excuses and heading our separate ways. Actually, she made the excuses, but it's my blog.

The most annoying thing about the night was, while waiting at the top of the escalators at Camden tube, a policeman came over and started talking at me while I was trying to send a text.

"Can I ask you what you're doing sir?"

he enquired.

"I'm waiting for someone" I answered

"and do you often wait for them here?"

"it's the first time I've met them"

"and who might they then"

"it's a date"

"Oh a date is it" he said, staring off at an angle perpendicular to my head. All the time he was maintaining a studied bored monotone, and I didn't much care for the sardonic edge to his voice that suggested all this was the dramatic build-up to some cretinous punchline. He was going to ask me to move, and I found his circuitous route both irritating and irritating.

"look, shall we cut to the chase here?" I asked, wolverine style claws pricking at my knuckles.

"don't take that attitude with me" he said, all traces of flaccid humour suddenly having evaporated "move out of here and stop causing an obstruction"

Which I duly did. What annoyed me was the moment I exited the turnstiles I was duly pestered by various people trying to sell me 'skunks', all of ten feet from robocop, who stood officiously staring at the hall of the tube station, ready to thwart wrong-doing in all its static, loitering forms.

Don't get me wrong, I've nothing against the police (some of my best friends are police) but shouldn't he have been out trying to catch some real criminals? James Blunt and the person ultimately responsible for the 'Tom Tom' sat-nav advertisements are a couple of obvious examples, but I could go on.

Anyway.

This week I've been working at a Corporate Identity consultancy with lots of Germans, which was either miles better than that sounds, or lots worse, depending on your perspective. The grid system was king, and there was no decent coffee – for me at least.

Their offices were in a huge victorian terrace with white walls and wall-to-wall blue carpeting. It was pretty much silent but for the ocasional conference call and the incessant clicking of mice. Every once in a while an insect would stray into one of the uplighters on the wall and perish with a piercing smell like burning hair.

Tasty.

Now it's the weekend. Went for a bite to eat at a Spanish place in Hackney with Sam and Kay, before going back to theirs for a couple of glasses of wine and a game of 'Buzz'. Also bought a copy of the Guardian, soley because today it came with a free poster depicting various types of octopi and squid (and cuttlefish). It's now pinned above my desk and I can tell it's going to be a slow month.

Post 100: Charity Shops

When I finally get around to assembling my 'Fantasy Football' band – 'The London Ipods,'* (consisting of me, Brian Eno, KRS1 and I dunno, one of the Cheeky Girls) my first single is going to be called 'Charity Shops Are Crap These Days', which is basically going to be a wailing lament/torch song about the current charity shop circuit, which as any dedicated charity shop scenester will tell you, has gone well downhill.

When my friend Sam got back from LA recently he was all like "The second hand shops out there are amazing man" he was all like "Dior t-shirt" and "Camper-style-shoes", and "vintage dresses" (Kay's, not his I might add), while I could but sit there agape.

Time was charity shopping here used to be one of my more preferred methods of wasting a Saturday, trawling through bins of mouldering old vinyl, and rails of motheaten old clothes in the hope of uncovering that elusive holy grail (which I'm reliably informed actually happens in a Neil Gaiman story).

Generally I'd operate alone – as dedicated charity shoppers do; you don't want to be sharing the goods with another enthusiast should you actually strike a seam of metaphorical charity gold, nor boring the shit out of those of your friends lacking the shopping chromasome.

Still the times were good, and there were bargains to be had. The shops you were after were those run by two little old ladies who loved cats, (and thats's about it) and who had an absolute absence of what might be termed 'street smarts'. By this I mean they had a howling void in place of anything which could vaguely be termed A: an aesthetic sensibility, B: an appreciation of design merit or C: any kind of nose for value. Sounds harsh? Well that's word to ya moms B; the last record any of these girls bought was probably a waltz on Shellac or a music hall number from the mid-late 40s. Other good signs were if it smelled of some enigmatic cocktail of mothballs and sick (the exact breakdown was never clear), and was for a singularly odd charity such as 'Pigeons for Jesus' or somesuch.

I remember triumphantly purchasing a Phillip Starck lemon squeezer (admittedly a bit of designer tat if ever there was one) boxed, for a couple of quid in the Royal Society for the Protection of Blind Sparrows shop by the Heaton Mersey Somerfield.

"Eh love, you really want to buy this?"

Queried the old dear behind the counter, eyeing the chrome object suspiciously. I did indeed.

And records.. not often but ocasionally you'd arrive just in time to snap up someone's collection of disco 12s or Soul lps – an entire crate of sometimes pristine wax for an absolute song (so to speak).

And clothes of course.. retro, ironic, it was all there.

But that was before 'the dark times'. I suspect that there was a golden era of charity shopping towards the arse end of the 80s and beginning of the 90s, when people rushed blindly to ditch their old clothes and records in favour of exciting new fabrics and those shiny drinks coasters we call CDs, little realising the kudos that these scorned artefacts would be garnering scant years later.

With the advent of ebay, and perhaps more so the arrival of the well worn rut of cheap BBC daytime programming – 'Tat Hunt', "Crap in Your Attic" etc, a phonemenon ocurred wherin the same crud people would pay other people to take off their hands a few years back suddenly became as potentially valuable as reconstruction contracts in recently deposed dictatorships; through some mysterious sleight of hand and under cover of relentless jocularity David 'The Real Lovejoy' Dickenson became apotheosised as some kind of sloganeering antiques neo-christ. Things were never to be the same again.

When charity shops got smart, the laminate flooring moved in and the bargains moved out, to be replaced by tat of such calibre I'm genuinely aghast any of it sold in the first place – the kind of synthetic jive St. Audrey would have been ashamed to have in her living room when she was rocking a lace necklace. While these once holy bastions of the bargain buy masquerade as shops, all the good stuff is creamed off in some warehouse to be auctioned for a premium on ebay, leaving me to panhandle through shelves of crap I'd deign unfit to throw rocks at. Now where's the fun in that I ask you?

It has to be said, it may just be symptomatic of the wider malaise that is the rampaging webber-beast devouring the high street, as it's not like anyone's going to root through racks of crackly Kanye West MP3s in ten years time is it? (or is it?). Only the other day I noticed Dixons had got eaten.

GOOD STUFF

Anyway. Here's a top ten of things I'd like to find in a charity shop. Pretty unrealistic I guess but you get the picture.

10. A stack of well thumbed 60s design magazines such as Avant Garde.

9. A load of brightly coloured seventies glass sculptures shaped like fish. They'd look really ironic in your bathroom at a party.

8. A cardboard box full of seventies science fiction paperbacks on the Panther imprint. Art direction on the cover is generally a stylishly shot photo of a lava lamp, or one of the glass fish from number 9 above. Stanilsav Lem might be well represented here.

7. Some cool t-shirts – badly screenprinted shirts from holiday destinations, obscure local businesses, and old computer games such as "Shadow of the Beast" earn extra karma points in the afterlife.

6. A clutch of original Blue Note lps from the 60s, slightly worn maybe, play fine though.

5. A pair of nicely worn in 'Big E' Levis.

4. Some retro electronic 'Grandstand' game, such as 'Munchman'. (Wimpey to Pacman's McDonalds, basically)

3. A couple of prints from the seventies – frame is cracked on one. Maybe from the Moebius 'Starwatcher' series? Yeah that'd be nice.

2. Shit.. I dunno, some Star Wars figures? Actually fuck that.. FUZZY FELT.

1. A Louis Leathers 'Super Sportsman' jacket, brown, size 40" please santa. (ironically, my ex housemate Paul did actually find one of these, it immediately rocketed to my number one and proved there is hope yet)

BAD STUFF

And Now, a top ten of the kind of raw shite you're going to have to wade through in your vain quest to find anything worth posessing.

10. Some James Last LPs. Never heard anything by him to my knowledge, never intend to. The art direction alone elicits the kind of panicked fearful response in me as some dogs have when they walk across the sites of ancient battlefields.

9. Some crappy home decoration book such as "Stencil Your Way To Success!", which isn't even on some ironic Readers Digest type flave. Avoid.

8. A 'Windows 98' handbook, though as Ade noticed the other day, our flat inexplicably owns one of these already (though I suppose I could take it to a charity shop).

7. Nylon shirts. Lots of them.

6. Mid 90s Topman t-shirts bought for the unreconstructed lad by his girlfriend. There'll probably be a faux-distressed picture of a mini on it, or a six-pack of some beer with the legend 'Six Machine" written on it; or (most heinously) the name of a developing country or suitably ethnic quarter of New York: 'Harlem', 'Bronx' etc. n.b. – this 'isn't the same' as the 'tourist' t-shirts described under 'good' in point 7. That cannot be emphasised enough.

5. Same weak assed chic-lit with titles such as 'Chardonnay Wedding', 'Man shopping' or 'Shopaholic Crimes'.

4. Some slightly sweaty looking Nike Trainers in size 6. And no they're not Dunks.

3. A simpsons tie. Though actually, it could be any Simpsons merchandise ie: boxer shorts, waistcoat, bubble bath.

2. Some god awful toy that has been spawned by some corporate sponsored tv franchise, A 'Tweenie' maybe, or that horrible purple dinosaur.

Fuck this is getting boring.. but you get the idea. Any ideas for the number one gratefully accepted.

ps: Hey-yah. One hundred posts deep. I'm popping the Chandon as I write.

*Apple's lawyers allowing.

Woah

Proving that my mum's blog is more interesting even than mine, here's my uncle kissing a certain stoney sea-lord somewhere high above the streets of London.

She gets all the scoops.

Ol' Brown RIP

I'm cat-sitting in Hackney at the minute, which makes for a change. The cat's nice anyhow, and so friendly you could mistake it for a dog. It was mewing and scratching at the bedroom door the other day so I let it in, thinking it would just sleep on the bed. Instead it stood on my chest rubbing its face against mine and pacing up and down incesssantly until I ejected it from the bedroom of eden, to the wasteland of the hall outside.

I got in quite late last night, having sat outside the Hermits for a bit with Marv and Gregg, who was stranded in London having missed his coach. As I was crossing a junction in Shoreditch the bag I've owned for nine or so years caught on a railing by its strap, which prompty ripped in two. There were a couple of hipster girls crossing the road behind me: "nice" commented one in passing, as they strode by.

I mourn its passing. In it's short life it's carried weighty tomes of critical theory from college and back (often largely unread), stacks of vinyl and cans of lager to parties, and socks and t-shirts to weekends away across this green and pleasant land.

Back in Soho again this week. This place has got air conditioning too, which after last week, is a godsend, especially considering the weather today was like a hot day in Spain. Shame to have to work, really.

I'm tring to sort out a tax return for 2005. I don't want to. I keep getting stern looking letters off the Inland Revenue urging me to get it in soon or else.. Or else what? You sent it to me late for starters.

When I tried to fill in the self assesment form I found that you have to send off for a subsiduary form about employment – which has just arrived a week later. To save time I tried to register to self assess online, and when my password didn't work, rang the IR helpline up to confirm it.

He said he'd send it in the post, as they don't give out such details in the post. And it'd take about a week. Sigh. What gets me is all this password would enable someone to do is potentially complete my tax return for me. If anyone fancies doing mine, they're welcome to it.

Escorcha

Well, Dunc's finally gone and done it, and as of last week he's shipped out to pastures new in Barcelona, where he'll no doubt be reducing himself to penuary on a strict diet of women and gin (or San Miguel).

Tuesday night was his 'testimonial' at the Hermit's Cave, and his loyal fan base turned out in droves to witness it. At one point there was at least ten of us, though the pub was unaccountably busy (that might have been the boxing, though).

One source – close to Camberwell's now ex premier liquid drum and bass exponent said: "move over Dunc, I want to get past".

But his leaving is a blow. As of tomorrow I'll be putting an ad on the notice board in Tadims, and in the ads section of the Southwark weekender for a new drinking buddy (and them tings don't come for free you get me?).

D-Func. D'func. DJ Phase. D Unit. You shall be sorely missed. Our thoughts are with his housemates, who've now got an estate agent moving in to replace him. Though he's actually alright.

Then the weekend was good. So good that the psychic trauma of a few days soulless freelancing for an unnappreciative gaggle of Mac slaves in Chealsea Harbour coudn't even thwart it. Friday I went out to the Crypt under St. Giles's Church on the recommendation of Al 'Scot' – Stockport's very own answer to Herbie Hancock. It's always a good night as you get to bump chairs with lots of cool and not so cool types, the beer is cheap, and there is a real live vicar wandering round. On this ocassion they had quite a big name on 'on the scene' apparently, so it was extra busy.

Saturday was almost surreally hot. Surreally in the sense that it was naturally hot without someone in my flat putting the heating on in the middle of June. I proudly donned birkenstocks and outsized Aviators (they make you look like a cross between Tom Cruise and a fly) and headed to Highbury park to meet Sam and Will.

There was a group of lads throwing a frisbee quite near us. It seemed to have an inbuilt random trajectory that rendered it completley unpredictable, and hence impossible to field. The otherwise farcical attempts of the players to actually catch it were lent something of an extra frisson by it repeatedly nearly burying itself in the heads of passers-by and children. We sat and smoked, and Will told us the reason you don't see white dog turds around anymore is because dogfood manufacturers don't add bonemeal to dogfood. That clears that up then (heh).

Then we went and ate at a surly Greek restaraunt on Upper Street called Mem & Laz. The food was alright, but the service sucked so hard it's still slowing down time in some areas of the solar system.

Then on Sunday went for a walk, up to Burgess park, and back down through Peckham Rye along where the old canals were. Spurning ice creams on the way back we popped into Gabby's for one of their excellent Patties (no saltfish though).

I also found some old records in a yard sale type affair across the road, including an Ohio players lp and an amazing 7 inch from 1984 that mashes up Billie Jean with 'Do It Again' by Steely Dan. Special.

We finally ended up on Ed's roof eating charcoal coated falafel, and 'chicken' burgers. Chicken in the sense that chickens exist and so do these, though they look more like the shingles off some vast improbable monster. The roof itself looks like it's covered in lead, but it transpires it's actually concrete painted silver. Pretty fucking funny concrete as you have to intermittently move chairs or they start sinking into the surface. The super-heated disposable barbecue also made quite a good bid for freedom by going 'China-Syndrome' through the roof of the flat. I think we managed to catch most of it in our lungs though.

Right. This week I'm out in Chiswick, then Covent Garden. I'm also flat sitting (or cat-sitting) for Sam and Kaye, so it'll give me the chance to explore 'ackney and 'oxton a bit.

Tube Dog

On Saturday I finally ended up going to Angel, to hook up with my friends Will and Sam, and give Sam the artwork for the business card I designed her. We went to Bierodrome for a bite to eat where I had the burger 'special'. Special by virtue of an added slice of blue cheese. It also came with a serving of fried onions that were devilishly tasty, but hugely salty. The portions were certifiably adequate. Any more and I would have shrivelled up like a frog on hot tarmac, for sure.

Went for one at the Hen and Chickens theatre bar before jumping on the tube at Highbury and heading home. These days when heading home on the tube I've got into the habit of staying on until Oval, then walking back – rather than getting off at the Elephant. It's a bit more expensive.. but miles nicer. You get to walk by such locations as 'The Miliki Spot' and, Mr Dandy, as well as the business park were I spent two days stapling together invoices for a builders merchants last year, so full of happy memories.

On the stop before Oval there was a couple sat opposite me. A black dude with short dreads and a white girl in a grubby tracksuit. The bags under her eyes marked as the 'frequent flyer' type. They had an English bull terrier with them that (I presume it was it anyway) emitted a sour fart of such a pitch to make your eyes water, before winding back behind their legs and collapsing under the fold-down seats.

Got back and my housemate and his friends showed up from the Funky Munky - to play music at volume.

Now it's Monday, and I've just gone and eaten at The Jungle Grill. Set Veggie breakfast 5. Very nice. Marvyn, Gregg and Mandy have gone to the pub. Good luck to them.

Saturday

A flat fuorescent monolith has manifested at either end of butterfly walk, seemingly overnight. A bit like the monolith at the beginning of 2001, except this one probably doesn't herald some kind of quantum leap in human evolution so much as direct you to a load of crappy pound shops selling flimsy plastic artefacts.

I'm a bit hung over. Ended up in the Hermit's Cave last night talking bollocks until closing. Ed was laying out a proposal for his new quiz show. So far as I remember it it's going to be called 'Good Cop, Bad Cop" and the pitch is that one contestant has a secret that presenters Fern Britten (good cop) and Andy Crane (bad cop) have to extract from them. There's also going to be a torture section where Tony Robinson gets beaten to yield evidence.

I think this all came about because we were three of us standing aound a circular table that felt like a gameshow prop.

Anyway. Bank holiday weekend. Not sure what to do tonight, but in the interim I might go and look in some charity shops.

When Fashion Attacks

This week I was working out in Chiswick, which was a hike. Nice enough in a semi-suburban London sort of way it seemed to be mostly populated by average Italian sandwich shops and.. yeah. Nice tube station though.

The work was quite interesting, though I was working on a grumpy Mac that might as well have been carved out of soap considering how responsive it was. It was a 19 gig cube G4, which had 700mb free.

It wasn't fast.

I managed to speed it up by doing some housekeeping (deleting some of the crap of the desktop and backing up some stuff) but nontheless, it didn't work particularly well if there was more than one application open, and seemed to take its own sweet time even then. Oh well.

Other than that the week was fairly uneventful, though on Thursday I did go to be Launch party for the new Diesel Store on Bond Street, courtesy of Deven Miles. It turned out to be stuffed to the rafters with some of most scary fashion types this side of Naomi Campbell's birthday party, which wasn't really surprising I suppose.

Now don't get me wrong, I like me some clothes - I used to get regularly lynched round Stockport by groups of rat faced Rockport clad youths for my eccentric choice of attire, but I was left standing here.

It was held at Victoria house, and I'm not sure what it usually looks like inside, but they had partitioned off the interior into lots of separate rooms linked by corridors, which was a bit like a cross between The Cube and one of those mazes they feed lab rats into. It was also unspeakably hot.

The music was good though, and there was a free bar. Apparently Brian Adams was there earlier, though the only semi famous person I spotted was Trevor 'Playgroup' Jackson. The It's Bigger Than were also in effect, posting it high by the decks, but I ended up leaving after about an hour, as I was absolutely dead tired and felt like something out of a George A Romero film. Being constantly elbowed by the beautiful people didn't help my mood either.

Anyway. Dunc/D-Func/DJ Phase's birthday party and leaving do tonight in just over an hour. If the storm clouds can hold off long enough there might even be a barbeque on his roof terrace, but looking at the sky outside, that seems unlikely.

'Stenders

I find that my TV watching habits are kind of a barometer of what's going on in my life. If I can give good account of recent events in Neighbours, say, it's a pretty good indication that I've not been working and am probably to be found drinking tea and staring moodily out of my living room window at coach loads of Polish tourists thundering past on Camberwell Church Street. Same goes for Countdown – except that's good, of course.

One thing I do seem to watch regularly though is Eastenders, and I say this with very little pride, as I realise that the programme is, put simply, car-crash tv.

It is quite amusingly bad though, and there are a few reasons for this. The most obvious one being that it depicts a London that is utterly nonexistant, except in the fevered imaginations of the shows producers. A vision as authentically 'London' as Dick Van Dyck's accent in Mary Poppins, only less so. For starters, if this is supposed to be the East End, shouldn't it be a bit more, shall we say, ethnically diverse? Rather than the token asian and black characters crudely shoehorned in to for appeasement's sakes, where are the African characters, The Bangladeshis, the Northeners (and don't say burt).

And jobs.. never mind all this market stall nonsense, surely anywhere in London is going to be home to at least one web designer, a couple of grime DJs, a freelance journalist and some recruitment consultants. Oh the recruitment consultants. Some shadey landlords as well, charging small fortunes for shoeboxes overlooking the high street, and taking two months to fix a tap. Then putting up the rent.

But one thing Eastenders does pride itself on, is its portfolio of 'hardmen', who are about as intimidating as yoghurt, only less useful in a fight. The most obvious being gurning 'double trouble' slapheads Phil and Grant, (brought back in in a vain attempt to boost ratings and proving, ultimately, that no-one ever really leaves the square – they just do a series of 'Ultimate Force' instead). Other than that though, notable villains include the 'pathetic gangster' – a post last occumpied by Johnny Allen. Pre-requisites for this role are simple really, you just have to be bereft of gravitas and supremely unintimidating, so having a receeding bouffant hairline and having sung in Spandau Ballet won't harm your chances one iota.

And the storylines... watching a storyline emerge in Eastenders is a bit like watching a ship sink – incredibly slowly. There's an awful inevitability to it in its sheer crashing unsubtlety and contrivance. One thing that always makes me groan inwardly is when two of the characters start talking at each other at cross purposes, and you realise that this is only the beginning of a tedious 'comedy of errors' that will take weeks to unravel, and won't even be that good when you get there. A bit like worrying away at the yards of grubby grey cable tangled behind your pc, somehow you realise it's better left alone and it will still be like that in six months time anyway. Something else that isn't exactly hard to spot in the 'Stenders is the way they introduce new characters – in short, they talk, unlike the hosts of extras who generally potter round mutely in the background like animated bit-players in some East End fuzzy felt diorama.

What is problematic with this, is that the programme's vocabulary in terms of its players is so limited that it's frankly ludicrous. Everyone has got, or had, such beef with other residents of the square that it's hard to see why anyone still lives there. An example of this that Will pointed out to me was how on Steve Owen's stag night, everyone put aside their differences for a night of leering and carousing in the E20. Why would you invite your enemies to your stag do? Because they're the only people you know of course, because no-one else in your neighbourhood talks! Jesus it's like some kind of Beckettian dystopia round here.. let's get down the queen Vic and roll out the barrel.

Eastenders is spiritually bankrupt too. Everyone always ends to scewing someone over over (both literally and figurtively) so in the end, everyone is as bad as each other. There's no moral compass in it whatsoever, unless you count Dot Cotton, and frankly, even she was being kinda snidey to the guy from Dad's Army who Pauline's shacked up with now. And far too many people end up sleeping with Pat Butcher, though, I did hear she was shacked up with Moira Stewart so maybe anything's possible.

All thus aside however, I can't pretend I don't watch this shit, and there's something peversely enjoyable about it. It really is utterly brainless, powdered soup for the mind, which is just the ticket for a Monday night. It also offers up a plethora of characters it really is quite fun to be irritated by – I'm thinking of Phil Mitchell's meeping drip of a son Ben at the precise minute, but there have been, and will be others.

But it has gone downhill since Big Ron left. Next week: Hollyoaks (joke).

I bid thee..

Go forth and educate your ears by going to

http://www.optimo.co.uk/

and downloading the 'first hour mix' from the 'goodies' section.

It's got a reggae cover of the Coronation Street theme*, and a reggae cover of Apache, as well as lots of other top stuff, so what's not to like.

* Apparently one of the dudes from Optimo is a big 'street' fan, or so Deven Miles tells me.

Shoes. Goats.

"The shoes? It's gotta be the shoes"

When it comes to footwear I'm down with Lords Of the Underground on this one. I'm sporting me some new brogues, and goddamn it if they're not pimping. I'm feeling them hard. Now, I just need to get my dads old 70s tan leather Austin Reed jacket repaired, and I'll be S.U.P.E.R.B.A.D.

I'm working back at M&C on some ongoing freelance with a view to becoming permanent. Apparently. Hope this gig works out as I had to burn some bridges to get here – bridges of the recruitment agency form so no huge loss, but still, I hate letting people down.

Twas It's Bigger Than on Saturday, so rolled up there. Ade and Dunc were absent having drunk themselves stupid at the Shaun Goater testimonial match at Southend. Their cousin had originally planned to bring along a live goat, then a load of toy ones before finally opting for twenty quids worth of veg, which he handed out to people with the instruction "feed the goat". No-one was allowed to take it in the stadium though, so the entire thing sounds like a bit of a waste of veg really. Maybe they should have bought a goat for a village in Africa or something. Just a thought. Anyway, I digress. IBT was good, though I was disappointed as Kaye didn't bring glowsticks like she said she was going to. Ah well – they'll keep to her and Sam's wedding I suppose, and in all fainress I left the vicks at home along with my hi-vis jacket and smiley shirt.

Went to the blogger meet up at the Sun and Doves yesterday, and chatted with the guys from the Flickr group. Nice bunch. I want to get more involved but for that I really need a camera that takes more than like, two photos per charge.

My head hurts today though. Realised how misguided my boozing adventure when I awoke this morning feeling like my brain had been dropkicked into a ditch full of asbestos. I should win a prize for how I feel, seriously. Still I'm getting through it. I had a fluorescent salad from Itsu before consisting of seaweed, shredded carrot and pumkin seeds, so that's gotta count for something, right?

Horrid day too. Lukewarm torpid weather with a sky the colour of grey milk. There was a fire alarm here before. Everyone swarmed into the square outside and milled about.

And now I blog. Can't wait to go home.. and Lost's on tonight too, so I'll veg out a bit too. Got a spot of design needs doing first, mind.

..............

10 PRINT "ANGRY"
20 GOTO 10

Bank Hol

I'm sipping grey coffee in a studio in Clerkenwell. The same creative services provider that ran the last studio I was in, incumbent in CHI off Oxford Street.

It uses some software called Twist, which some guy ran through me very quickly with me. As far as I can tell it's like an extension that generates different pdfs simultaneously. I think - I'm not sure. I'm quite tired and will probably ask the guy again.

Last week in Wales seems a million miles away. One thing I didn't write about then is that my mum and dad are plagued by a pheasant, that I think by rights should be a cartoon character a la Woody Woodpecker. Its thing is making a 'bwip bwip' sound a bit like a car alarm being deactivated – followed by a whooshing sound a bit like a flame thrower. Great at four in the morning – I think my dad wants to wack it.

Bank holiday was good. Stayed in on Friday and watched Layer Cake – which was alright if slightly convoluted. Also had some interesting freelance doing some illustration for a magazine in Ireland and working on a logo for a friend. Ironically a few things have happened at once, so a third bit which was also in the offfing had to sidelined, really, as it was spec work, and the other stuff is paid. Shame.

Saturday went to my friends Sam and Kays', and they cooked some food – some nice gnocchi and tomato sauce. Then went to Tea Bar in Shoreditch, where some guy was spinning techno. I recognised some of the tracks from a set by Jerome Pacman.

Awoke on Sam's couch in East London and went and ate eggs benedict at a cafe on Hackney Road. Think it was called 'The Premises'. It's under a studio anyway, and the walls are adorned with signed mugshots of musicians such as Roy Ayers, Miss Dynamite, and um, Charlotte Church. Ms Church's beaming photo was directly opposite me with the caption "Lush stirfry! You guys are stonking!" then something in Welsh.

The weather was good so I rather excitedly arranged to go and sit on Clapham Common with Ade – which was a cue for the weather to change and slate grey clouds to swarm across the sky. Went to the Tim Bobbin in the old town instead, before finally ending up back at Ade's listening to techno until the wee hours.

Felt weak on Monday, so spurned my friend Helen's offer of a roast and went home instead. Didn't do too much except watch a couple of episodes of Darkplayce.

And now it's tuesday. I'm pretty tired. I just finished a book called Post Office by Charles Bukowski. Its pretty funny, and having worked many a bleak summer job (and indeed temped for the NHS more recently) his depiction of 'bleakjob' (tm) rings very true.

I might go and buy some shoes in a bit.

Out of town

"so i be ghost from my projects
i take my pen and pad for the week and hittin' L's while i'm sleep'
on a two day stay, you may say i need the time alone
to relax my dome, no phone, left the 9 at home
you see the streets have me stressed something terrible.."

Nas – One Love

Ok so I haven't got a nine, and I actually took my phone (though I might as well have taken one of those snake shaped draught excluders for all the good it did me) But the last few days were spent on a hillside in Wales.

I was literally surrounded by green, but neither of the crisp folding persuasion, nor the sticky kind that makes you laugh at crap films and walk to the garage at two in the morning to buy a twix. No it was the rather more prosaic form of green that sheep/cows eat, though there was lots of it, and it was probably partly to thank for the lovely fresh air that I got to imbibe for the duration of my stay; it's been a veritable tonic.

So I've done bugger all really, save walk aound, check emails, chill and read books (Truecrime by Jake Arnott, great, and Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosely, almost finished). I also recovered a few bits and pieces that were languishing in my mum and dads' garage, thou not a great deal really – my Orb 'live 93' poster being one of them, along with a Henri Lloyd jacket that had a busted zip the last time I saw it (from my 26th birthday when I ended up getting bitten by a drunken Isrish man, don't ask).

And now here I am, back in babylon, staring down the barrel of another bank holiday weekend, and more immediately, a house meeting tonight. Can't wait. Got to don my 'Victor Mature' hat to talk reasonably about cleaning rotas and the house cleaning kitty. Then I might go to the pub afterwards to moan about it to someone else.

Celebrity Spotting

I saw Gail Porter in Marks and Spencer in Soho today.

Other celebs I've seen whilst in London include the guy who plays Martin Fowler in Eastenders outside the cafe across the road from the John Snow pub (I overheard him say something like "I dunno, I don't even know the geezer" as I strolled past, ears burning) the guy with the really flat profile/wonky nose who was in Holby City and that Smirnoff Ice ad where he's got off with his mate's mum at a party – he in a pub in Clapham junction, and Brian Dowling, who I saw strolling along just north of Oxford Street clutching a Louis Vuitton bag.

Pretty good eh?

I'm off to Wales tomorrow, where the only celebrities I'm likely to meet will probably be prize winning livestock.

Friday

All quiet on the western front.

Things I saw on the way to work this morning:

Two police support officers removing sheathes of those postcard sized chatline cards from a phonebox on the Charing Cross road.

Went to the Blues Bar on kingly street last night, and drank lager in the presence of Gridrunner and man like Zeon Cosini. Saw a guy there amidst the crowd that lived, or still lives in all probability, in Muswell Hill with a girl I saw last year. Couldn't remember his name though, so there really didn't seem much point in saying anything to him.

Then went to The Coffee House round the corner, which is, according to a clipping above the bar 'the pub where regulars go to be insulted'. They don't dissapoint either, and the guy behind the bar kept yelling "lightweight!" at me because I was trailing Ade in beer consumption. Also, last year when I was having about three pints on my luch break before nearly missing a flight to Corfu, the wizzened old guy kept whistling the Scooby Doo theme at me (I had long hair and a beard – I think he was implying I looked like shaggy).

Then went home and ate noodles and internetted.

Things I can see from my desk:

A photo of a a fat, gormless looking grey cat staring at me from the divider between the desks. I think it belongs to Carole who usually sits here (insofar as cats belong to anyone).

A stapler with 'Kate' written on it in black marker on Carole's desk.

Um, my hands?

That's not it obviously, but those are the things that stand out right now.

Well, another bank holiday weekend, and this time my brother's in town, so I feel I should really impress him with the glory that is London – go and do something interesting say, rather than drink in the Hermits Cave. Drink in the Joiners Arms maybe?.

I'm bored. Straw poll: what's in everybody's right pocket?

I've got:

Two pound coins

Some Wrigley's Sugarfree Gum (peppermint flavour)

My Wallet.

That's it.

zz

Really tired again; yet more no sleep action. Frankly, I feel slightly pissed (and no, I didn't drink last night). Maybe this would make a cheaper alterntive to boozng in the future? When aware of an impending date where alcohol is to be consumed in quantity, I could simply stay in and give sleep a miss for the night, and, hey presto! posess the glassy eyed torpor of the post-inebriated, but with a healthier bank balance and liver. There, that's my 'top-tip' for the day.

On a happier note I just hade a look on ebay, and a Futura 2000 print I bought in 2001 is going for nearly five times what I paid for it then. It's not even that good quality a print to be honest, as the stock is very thin and the screenprinting slightly dodgy. But still.. nice to know some baggy jeaned hipster somewhere's willing to pay big for it (and there were 29 bidders when I last checked).

Painted the living room completely white yesterday, and it looks great. A vast improvement on the previous sickly yellowy rent-a-beige anyhow. It took me Marvyn and Cecilia about four hours to do, and was actually quite enjoyable as some relatively no-brain jobs sometimes are. We listened to music as we were doing it – Animal Collective and Hi Records soul compilations, mainly, which I'd heartily reccomend to anyone doing likewise, and the time flew by. I got a pair of 'designer' paint spattered jeans out of it too.

It almost might not have happened too, as Cecilia went to get the paint rollers in the morning, Camberwell Church Street was cordoned off by police 'Do Not Cross' lines due to a shooting at the bottom of Grove Lane. This kind of thing seems to happen slightly to often for my liking on my street – Flashback to 2005 when me and Jess were talking in the living room only to hear rauccous sounds outside. What's this? Oh it's a phalanx of black suited police wih machine-guns wrestling two yardies to the ground. With dogs. While being filmed by CID. Oh. The best bit was that both the rudeboys were staring straight up at us from the ground when we looked out the window. Special.

Anyway. Too much merderation for my tastes. I laugh at Camberwell's eccentricities sometimes, but these eccentricities have as yet to pull a shank on me at the bus-stop, so I do so from a admittedly privileged position.

Top-tip two's probably keep your eyes out then, seen?

G'night G'bless

I'm sat up, it's twenty to five, the last of whichever housemate it was's syrupy orangle licqeur(?) is gone. The last Dire Straits tune fades to silent on my iTunes. Might be painting the living room tomorrow. Goodnight.

Good Friday

So just what is it that makes good friday so different, so damn good?

No work for starters, all tickety boo thus far then.

But what exactly do people do with their Bank Holidays? Anyone not involved in traditional bank holiday pursuits such as going to B&Q or the pub might like to do what I've been doing. "And what's that?" I hear you scream with such intensity that your spittle temporarily blinds me.

Well. Woke up this morning and read a bit of The Incal 2, by Moebius, then ate breakfast with Marvyn watching some Second World War comedy film thing called Ensign Pulver. It's a kind of shades of Sgt Bilko type affair set on a ship, and not actually that good. Most of what I saw involved the hapless Ensign Pulver ogling a bevvy of nurses stationed on the island they're anchored off – and comic hi-jinks ensue etc.

Then went and bought a scanner in town on Tottenham Court Road. Going to test drive it in a minute. I also got the latest All Star Superman by the team of Grant Morrison and my fave 'drawerer' Frank Quitely. He' really is almost too good. There's so much detail in each of his panels that each issue demands a reread just to drink up the little touches dotted around. We3 that they also collaborated on is also rather splendid. cyborg pets in exo-skeletal armour – what's not to like?

And now, I'm writing this, obviously. But just before then, I was staring at assorted bits of paper relating to banking, and trying in my own limited way to make some sense of them. The ongoing saga of me setting up as a limited company gets more tortuous each passing week. At the minute I've got a load of tax stuff from the Inland Revenue, who've managed to mis-spell the name of my company – a company I've as yet to invoice anyone for any money with, I might add. I really want to get this moving, but at the minute I'm just waiting for the final documents and information relating to it all to arrive. The woman I've dealt with at HSBC said she'd leave the relevant papers at the Baker Street branch yesterday, which I duly hiked to from Tottenham Court Road on my lunch break only to find she hadn't. I duly wheeled 180 degrees and trudged back – and that was my lunch break. Anyway. Also emailed Amnesty International to bitch at them about one of their shifty tabard wearing street people.

And later? who knows. Probably involves food at some point, but what I'm not sure exactly. I think the oven's broken now. but nothing in this fucking flat works anyway. Not even me today! Hah.

Just bought a Kinder Egg, which contained a 'haunted tree' which was something I never thought I'd need, but there you are.

Alright chaps, have a good un.

Tired

Man I'm tired.

I slept for two and a half hours last night, which combined with five or so the previous night makes for about seven hours out of the last fifty whatever. I actually went to bed early (for me) at 11, and fell asleep to at two, only to wake up at half four, and not be able to get back to sleep.

This has been going on for a few weeks now, and it's really starting to wear me out. I just really want to sleep a good nights sleep before work, but am seemingly incapable.

I feel wired, and somewhat stupid. I keep on making really crass mistakes, and am almost too tired to care. Yesterday on leaving the office I kept pushing on the door until the girl on reception gently said, "just pull it sweetheart".

I realised I'd been reading the "push" printed graphic on the outside of the glass (in reverse, of course)

Mentally, I feel on the level of watching lots of daytime tv, and that's about it. Countdown would probably seem as tough as quantum physics right now though.

If I can just get through tomorrow, I might just hibernate over Easter and not leave my bed.. In the meantime though, any sleeping tips?

This is getting trippy.

Stu-stu-studio

Well, monday rolls around again, and though I wasn't booked to work anywhere, here I be, in the studio of an agency on Rathbone Street. Looks OK. I'm told I'll be working on direct mail shortly. Hmm. Can't complain, or more accurately, turn the work down if it's offered, but I had planned on sorting some other stuff out. Like cleaning the flat. Woo.

Last week I was back at the dadvertising agency on Dean Street, which came and went, moderately painlessly. Lots of mocking up to do, which was slightly tedious – One of the slight perks of doing such things these days is that people don't use spraymount anymore, so you might live a bit longer anyway. I wasn't sleeping very well though, and one of the corollary risks of running on empty like this while working with scalpels was lopping an errant thumb tip off in an especially enthusiastic bout of trimming. I've jus checked though, and all digits remain intact, including that all important middle digit, which is handy because..

I did find out this morning though that I wasn't getting paid overtime for the evening work I did, which takes the piss a bit, as it was only time and a half, and I only did two and a half hours anyway. Gee thanks, tightwads. The girl at the agency put it down to them being a small agency and not having allowances for overheads like that etc etc.. blah blah.

Weekend was ok. Went to a Spanish place on Hanway Street, where I drank lots of bottles of Spanish beer, which somone else was paying for on their tab, then promptly regretted it when it came to divvying up at the end.

Saturday went to Clapham North for drinks, then wound up going to a nondescript party up the road off Camberwell Grove. Someone was playing somewhat nondescript drum and bass, so I stood by the decks and worked my way through two plates of free pizza (leaving the crusts) before vanishing bedward.

Nearly Easter, then. Not sure what I'm doing for it. Might go back to Manchester, but I'm not sure. The appeal of sleeping on couches for an entire weekend has started to lose some of its native charm recently.. not sure why but I definitely like waking up with two pences and cig butts stuck to my face less than I did a couple of years ago. On the other hand, I'm not sure who's going to still be around Londres for the festivities, so if there isn't anyone, perhaps I should get organising a solo easter egg hunt for myself. Or maybe dress as a giant rabbit and befriend the alcoholics and nutters of Camberwell.

Which reminds me. Whilst walking up Camberwell Church Street the other day I saw a Rasta guy dressed in black with 'DJ SILVER PRINCE' written on the back of his jacket in tippex. The cross bars of his bicycle had some kind of makeshift soundsystem attached, and though he wasn't playing anything, one could only surmise what he might if he had chosen too. My money's on some scratchy 70s dub (or the theme from fraggle rock) Either way, it's times like this you wish you had a camera, or one that worked anyway.

Haircut

Well went back to Manchester, fleetingly, and got my ears lowered as I generally do in those colder wetter climes.

The place I go is a The City Barbers, just a few doors up from The Roadhouse. It's run by a lovely guy called Jim, who's started to remember me. He's a pretty unpretentious type of guy, as happy dispensing short-back-and-sides or ceaser-cuts as anything, I suspect, but dude knows how to style it too. After all, this was the man that gave me a semi-mullet briefly in 2004, and happy I was with it too.

I used to go in on my lunch break. Once when I went in, he was scarfing down a curry, which he promptly ate to give me a cut. He'll also typically light up a cig mid-session, which he'll ocasionally retrieve from the ashtray with thick fingers, whilst gesticulating with the scissors held in the other hand "Getting these in for the ban next year mate". He's brown, slightly wrinkled, paunchy, a Manc.

He always asks how work's going, and tells me how his kid's doing, and narrates tales of the ex-wife with whom he's embroiled in some long running Kramer-esque feud. He never talks to me about football, which either means he doesn't like it himself, or some barberly sixth sense, (perhaps innate, perhaps bestowed by a device concealed in the chair) lets him know I'm not really bothered myself, and indeed find the ritual of confessing to a lack of interest in football as unrewarding as queueing to get frowned at. Either of these possibilities are fine with me.

Sometimes his patter is so good natured and unselfconcious I have to fight to control my laughter, quaking silently in the chair. He doesn't seem bothered though, and inevitably rambles on, about where he's taking his kid next year, or how he's always wanted to run a bar.

And a bargain too, at £9, for a gents haircut I don't think I'd get better than at. say, Toni and Guy (not that I've been). I tipped him a quid last time, and he said thanks, and then I left, with a colder neck, to return no doubt in a couple of months.

Result

Well, got jerked about royally this week on a booking out in Hertfordshire. After it was changed no less than three times, I turned up only to be told that they only had a days work for me – this after getting up at six and travelling for two hours to get there.

The work was fairly dull too, and got briefed in late, by someone hung over. Part of it was report and accounts, relentlessly copying and pasting figures from a word document into an Indesign template, then tabbing them, and after a few hours of that, my mind was well and truly fried.

Anyway, I'm using my newly non-working status tomorrow to flee back oop north, with the dual purpose of seeing some old faces and getting a few bits and pieces languishing round at my brothers. I'm getting a lift back with my new housemate Marvyn on Saturday.

I'm also getting my quarterly (or therabouts) haircut at the best barbers ever, in Manchester.. I shit you not, this guy is a dude.

But anyway, I'll blog about that later.

Just popped into Cash Converters on Walworth road and scooped a couple of CDs – a Shriekback best of compilation, and the Bring Da Ruckus compilation on Loud, which I've been looking out for a bit – mostly for the remix of Rainy Dayz by Raekwon, but really, it's crammed with what Tim Westwood would term 'hot joints', so a steal at £2.

Anyway, I'll probably write again post Manchester.

I don't beliieeeeve it

I appear to be turning into a Victor Meldrewish type figure, really. Thwarted by petty beauracracy and nursing a throbbing vein in my temple the size of a Nik-Nak (not nice and spicy flavour, either).

But I'm going to moan about one more thing, and then stop, alright? then return to writing haikus about, I dunno, snow blossom or something, and gazing at my poster of a wet kitten with the 'bad hair day' legend embazoned across it in comic sans.

Had today and Tuesday off, so endevoured to fulfill the second leg of my quest to become a limited company by opening a business bank account. Unfortunately I hadn't reckoned with the Camberwell branch of HSBC, where they've presumably had to reinforce the floors to cater for a typical days traffic, whilst simultaneously forgetting to employ anyone – anyone real at least.

I eventually spotted a weary looking HSBC employee at the head of a queue, to be told twenty minutes later that the soonest I could be seen was next Monday afternoon, if the world didn't end first. Man this guy was getting me depressed. Fair enough though, the only other sound above the paranoid aandroid's valium induced drawl was the sound of teeth getting sucked and middle englanders tutting behind me, which would've induced clinical melancholia in Ebeneezer Goode.

I agreed, but on leaving thought 'fuck it' I'll see if any other branches of my bank in the nations's capital would see me tomorrow for half an hour. Herein followed a debacle it probably takes an institution as monolithic and arrogant as the HSBC to unwhittingly engineer, as this simple exercise is now seemingly impossible.

Having gained the number of the Baker Street Branch off t'internet, I rang it at home, only to be greeted by that flat robotic woman's voice that makes me want to go out and smash phone boxes.

"YOUR CALL IS BEING HELD IN A QUEUE PLEASE HOLD THE LINE WHILE WHILE WE ATTEMPT TO CONNECT YOU TO A CUSTOMER SERVICE ADVISOR"

It intoned at me, irritatingly, before a tinny loop of Handel's Water Music kicked in, in a vain attempt to soothe me.

Then, predictably, after some Parappa-the-Rapper-esque tone dialling shenannigans I got connected to the inevitable call centre located in Delhi, or somewhere, where my 'customer service advisor' was scarcely more helpful than robot bird.

"Er, hi, I just want to speak to someone at the Baker Street branch to see if they'll see me tomorrow?"

I asked.

No fucking chance, it transpires. The girl offered to ring for me, again putting me on hold for yet another bout of torpid lift music, before informing me that no-one was answering the phone, though if I liked, she'd leave a message for me.
Ultimately it transpires, any number I get off the internet leads solely to one of these places, where my 'customer service' consists of someone telling me no one is picking up the phone somewhere else. Thanks.

Ultimately, I ended up going into central London and walking to the Baker Street branch, where within quarter of an hour I'd arranged a meeting for tomorrow, and the staff were very helpful and polite.

It did mean I missed Countdown though.

'The World's Local Bank'? yeah right.

OK enough!

See how the money goes

I went into the bank on my lunchbreak today, to cancel a standing order to my housemate who's moving out. (It was for broadband and NTL)

I also canclled the insurance on my old flat, that while negligable was unnecessary, and also discovered that yet more money was being pilfered off me.

When I moved down in November 2004, whilst roaming central London with a sheath of CVs in search of work, I ran into one of those charity workers in bright jackets who try to catch your eye, then clothes-line your conscience into submission. Instead of mumbling excuses and swerving round him I actually stopped listened to what he had to say, and despite being strapped eventually agreed to make a donation in the new year.

The agreement was it would come out in March, and I'd get a phone call to confirm it. I didn't actually get any such call, and the money came out in February but hey ho.

Anyway I since learned today that the donation was not just a one off – which is something the guy completely omitted to mention to me. Indeed I'd go as far as to say the implication was very much the opposite. It's not such a big deal, and OK the money is hopefully going to do some good, but I find the fact that it was obtained by means tantamount to deception somewhat.. disappointing really. They relied on my good nature to stop and agree to making a donation in the first place so not being completely transparent upfront is pretty sneaky if you ask me.

The woman at the bank said it was a pretty widely used tactic, you should always check the fine print, but then, HSBC hasn't exactly got room to gloat (she kept dabbing at the blood of her last 'customer' on her HSBC tunic ).

Oh well. good karma for me I suppose (though I might have mitigated it somewhat by bleating about it in a blog).

I also got offered nine and a half weeks (oo-er) contract work in Watford.

I turned it down because:

a) It was an in-house role

b) Brochure/Catalogue work (snore)

c) Watford

d) GOTO a)

Bankers

A girl called Alli I went to uni with back in the primordial mists of time once told me how she and her housemate, high on student life and hell-bent on hi jinks, had developed a novel way of disposing of tea bags with the little bits of string attached, wherein having removed them, they’d whirl them round, sling like, before catapulting them into the wall above the bin, allowing them to slide down leaving a brown sluggy tea stain on the wall.

That’s how my head feels now.

I’m sat in an agency on Baker Street, waiting for copy, staring out at scaffolding across the road. I’m drinking strong tea, and have just polished off a cinnamon whirl and a croissant.

Things I saw on the way to work this morning:

Two traders setting up at the Elephant & Castle market trading fisticuffs completely silently, while a third bloke tried to break them up, with very little success. Hard to work out exactly what was going on, but it looked like they were on the same stall. They were really swedging though, with some serious head pounding action

An old guy on the escalator on the tube at Baker street, bent at a nearly ninety degree angle, due to what? old person spine shrinkage or summat. Yoga please.

Found out just Wednesday while doing some sporadic letter opening that I’d gone over my overdraft, and my bank was cheerfully crucifying me for it (figuratively speaking of course – sorry Jews, Christians etc) which pretty much wiped out any money I earned in oh, the last two weeks. Basically they were charging me £30 every time I used my card, on top of some other charges which were probably set out in six point type (80% tint) on page six of something I signed in 1997.

Fair play to them though, I hear HSBC are a bit strapped these days, and they did offer me a loan to sort it out.

*cunts*

And in saying that I apologise to female genitalia everywhere - no offense intended for indirect association with these vampires.

What annoys me is the utterly superfluous nature of these charges - which effectively amount to a poor tax for chumps like yours truly. As Simon said last night, evil geniuses. I hate the way banks have the gall to actually crow when they’re not charging you for something too.

“We will not charge you for withdrawing money from this ATM”

Beamed an earnest HSBC cashpoint at me this morning. And? So you fucking shouldn’t.you cheeky, cheeky money hungry bitches. Honestly. Come the revolution...

Anyway Jules’s birfday at the Funky Munky (hate that name) tonight, so no doubt japes await me there.

Airhead

Well, I wrote a blog post yesterday, but it is currently languishing in simple text format on the desktop of a Mac in central London, so I'll have to get it up later.

I currently don't have internet access at my yard, so have returned to one of my haunts of old, the Banjonet internet place on the Walworth road. It's not even an internet cafe as it doesn't serve food, and it's the very definition of no frills. The keyboard I'm typing this on feels like a car has reversed over it, and beneath each of the mice is a patch where the paint has worn through to the wood beneath. I actually find it faintly dismal here, but at least there's not some dude next to me blasting out Usher while watching porn, as has happened in the past.

Went to Julia's party at the Funky Munky last night, which was good fun, though mitigated somewhat by the fact that the Funky Munky sucks ass, through a flesh coloured straw.

In the past, we've put on nights there, and have been allowed to hire the top room for free, and get 10% at the bar. Now it costs £250 to hire a not especially large cold room, with knackered old decks on pillows, and a mixer whose power lead kept popping out. It looks like it was knocked up by McGuyver on a bad day.


They were even charging people going to the party at the door which takes the piss a bit, and the drinks aren't exactly cheap.

I was deejaying for the first hour and a half or so, and the second thing that really pissed me off was when of my friend Julia's mates mistook me for a gatecrasher, and said:

"Come on mate, don't be a knob, go downstairs"

Which pretty much left me speechless. I thought she was taking the piss at first (which, actually, she was, in a matter of speaking) but it dawned on me that she was being completely serious, and before I could concoct a cutting riposte, she turned 180 degrees in disgust.

Fair enough, there happened to be some townie who'd wandered in next to me, and I've only met her once before, but on that ocassion I did spend most of the night talking to her, and some of it getting off with her. So obviously I mustn't have been very memorable.

Anyway. Woke up today and went for a bite at the Jungle Grill for a veggie breakfast. After things I've read recently, I might steer clear of Rocksteady Eddies.

Off to Camden tonight, to the Lock Tavern. Going early to hopefully get a table. With any luck, they'll have dismantled the Krypton Factor-esque assault course of tables and chairs that make cat swinging impossible too.

Pigeon Blog

I stumbled across this blog the other day, and was so taken I had to contribute an old pic (just under the merch).

Sawbridgeworth

This week I was working out in Sawbridgeworth, in deepest darkest Hertfordshire, which was neither very deep or dark. It actually became a royal pain in the ass, as I had to get a bus, tube, then train to get there; a total of two hours travelling time.

It was sort of strange working in a little village, as living amongst the litter and pigeons in London tends to make you forget such places still exist.

I mentioned on someone elses blog how despite being assailed by a blanket of media hype surounding the Arctic Monkeys, I had as yet managed to avoid hearing them, with the prediction that the next time I worked in a studio where they played the radio I would be inevitably hearing it on heavy rotation.

This prophecy proved true, as the studio I was in had Radio One on constantly. I'd forgotten just how much the inane twittering of daytime radio jocks annoyed me, and this week was an unwelcome reminder. Flashbacks keep coming back to me: Jo Whiley talking to the Sugababes and complimenting them on how 'raw' their new tune is. Really Jo? which bit were you listening to? More needling yet is Roy Walker's guest spot on lardarse Chris Moyles show, but the most irritating of the lot have got to be JK and Joel, who used to terrorise Manchester with their spot on Key 103, have now been given the keys to the gun cabinet with their vastly annoying stint in the afternoon. They're basically the Chuckle Brothers of daytime radio, except less funny - a fact amply demonstrated by their tedious 'remix' sketch where they take an old tune and create a hi-energy dance version of it. It's infinitely worse than it sounds too, and serves as evidence of how music can actually function as a torture device.

Anyway. Other than that work was OK. There was too much of it on Friday for my liking however, and being the type of guy who's only recently graduated to chewing gum and walking, was less well managed than I'd ideally hope for. I prefer to know where I'm up to with everything, and have a manageable workload, or else nothing gets done very well - which I hate.

Saturday went for a curry at Clapham Tandoori, and then a 'polite' party afterwards in Clapham South. This meant music - (but not too loud) drinks (but no drunks) and a general absence of hotel trashing antics. Fun enough though I suppose.

Sunday was Round 2 of our interviews for a new flatmate, with two guys who were both really nice. I got outvoted over the one I prefered, but It doesn't really matter. In the end it was getting slightly irritating the amount people were vascillating about it. Just make a decision for fucks sake..

It was also St Patricks Day, so me and Ade's evening consisted of finding an Irish theme pub in the West End, drinking stout til we couldn't see, then passing out in the fountains at Trafalgar Square while wearing those krazy Guiness hats people wear on such ocassions.

Actually no, we just went to the Sun and Doves, where some girl group calleed Inside 65 were performing. They were pretty good too.

Interviews

As Gridrunner carves up virgin snow like the new media playboy that he is, and DJ Phaze repopulates forest in Honduras, the Eye has somewhat more tedious things to get to grips with, such as repopulating his own flat; d-don't worry though, it's not because I've carved up virgins here.. or anything.

The beginning of the day was thus spent emailing people and placing ads online about the room, which is actually a bargain, and a very decent size. Being at the front of the house however, it also acts as something of a sounding board for rudebuoy's bass-bins as they thunder up Camberwell Church Street, or the quaking of buses at the stop outside, so I think I'm going to stick in my little broom cupboard in the attic.

It's elicited some response, but so far four of the five people who've expressed an interest have decided against it, two of them before even stepping inside. One let me know by text in the following shorthand: "Hey tom sorry2mess u around bvt i will have2postpone our meeting until i have a dEf moving dte.Sorry2have messed ubowt" *FINE* I don't think I'd want to live with such a sloppy texter anyway.
The girl we did meet tonight was really nice though.. and despite it being early days yet looking for people is starting to do my head in, so if she's interested, she can have it as far as I'm concerned.

Today was another example of just how brass-necked recruitment people can be. Someone from one of the agencies I signed up with late 2004 rang me up, a full seven or eight months after I last spoke to him, offering me some freelance out in - wait for it - Hertfordshire. It's a hike, but I might as well take it with nothing else on. Still, mission.

Anyway, I'm meeting up with a friend from Manchester who's down in London for training tomorrow, so that should be a larf if nothing else.

And thou shalt know them by their iTunes playlist

Thursday and Friday I was in for my week overdue booking at an ad agency at the top of Dean street in Soho. It was with some good old boys who'd broken away from their old agency to form their own. Consequently it was quite a small operation, though very friendly, and quite old school. No huge framed glasses a la Morris Saatchi though.

They had music playing too, but it was almost 100% uncut 'dad rock' - think Fleetwood Mac, Eurythmics etc. Actually no bad thing, and I did feel a bit like I was in my dad's car on holiday in France circa the late eighties. There was also a bit of Frank Sinatra later on.. Three Coins in a Fountain anyone?

One of my jobs was to go trawling stock image libraries on t'internet for a picture to go on the front of a mailer, and the brief was to find a young 'fun' looking mum and kids on a beach. I found many pictures, mostly slightly rubbish, including various cheesed out american shots that looked dated to say the least, to lesbian couples and families that were, I suspect, too 'ethnic' for the middle-england-courting client. Ones featuring nude kids were also quite clearly off the agenda, unless I fancied jackbooted Sun sponsored stormtroopers kicking in my door in the dead of night and stringing me up from the nearest flagpole.

Which reminds me.. did anyone see this headline from my favourite tabloid. Very much in the vein of 'Brass Eye' I thought, only without the satire. I think personally the 'art direction' should have featured an artists impression of a paedo, in a spring heeled jack vein, photoshopped into a classroom (possibly with cross hairs over him).

Anyway. Caught up with some mates in Clapham for a couple o' beers in the evening, then totally failed to get a 35 home -instead walking all the way through Brixton to Camberwell in the freezing cold after I gave up hope of one ever coming.

Checked out the charity shops on the Walworth Road today, where I bought a book and a the SWV single 'right here' from 1993, which features Pharrel Williams rapping on the UK mix for about thirty seconds, and a remix by Lord Finesse, complete with trademark horns.

For some insanely annoying reason, my Last fm chart refuses to update on my mac at home, even when I refresh the page.. it doesn't do it on other computers though. Wierd.

Well, off to It's Bigger Than tonight. By myself though as my half my mates are on holiday at the minute.

Long day

Today was long. It mostly involved me working on some stuff for the AA – a prompt card and a 12 page booklet thingy that list the stuff you can get if you're part of the AA. As a consequence the days official colourways were yellow and black, and I feel a bit like I've been staring at wasps for the last 12 hours.

None of the Macs were working properly for the first two hours, and initially I was perched on the edge of a small drawer unit in lieu of an actual seat. Wizard!

Glad I got out with my sanity, but possibly more bothersome was leaving my phone at my friend Wills house, which gave me a nervous tic which is only just subsiding now. Indeed the fun was just beginning when I left work as I had to enact an obscure dog-leg to Camberwell via Angel in order to get the decrepit thing.

Inevitably, perhaps, there were various missed calls from people chasing time-sheets and offering me work, which I've no doubt missed the boat on. There was also a folorn sounding message from me twelve hours previously, which I recorded because it kept going straight to answering machine - I put this down to it running out of batteries or some fagin type character disenabling it, but actually, Will just switched it off 'cause my incessant ringing was getting on his tits.

Anyway Gridrunner goes Snowboarding on Saturday, so that's one less person for me to bother in the Evenings.. The next two weeks might involve me heading North of the river more as a consequence, but perhaps that's being a little hasty.

Phone loss

Ahhh fucccck.

Sunday was so nice, all really nice food and friends, and now I've got in and can't find my phone.

I don't know whether it's been swallowed by Will's armchair, or is languishing somewhere on the Underground, or has been cast into some shrubbery by a disgusted pickpocket (unlikely in London I know. The shrubbery that is).

All I know is, it's going straight to its answering machine when I ring it, where a telegraphic female voice intonates at me in a really irritating fashion. As we all know, this is never a good sign.

I can't even ring Will as his number's in my phone.

Please let it still be mine, somewhere. I feel like someone's hacked off a secret ear I took too much for granted.

Work

I'm working at an ad agency in Covent Garden. Quite enjoying it. Might be more tomorrow and next week, but it's all contingent on them finding a spare Mac, as my laptop doesn't have Quark 6 on it.

Ah well, wait and see. Could really use the cash, that's all.

Normal Service Resumed

Anyone tuning in this morning might have discovered that this blog had reverted to its original and extremely green guise (That's green as in colour as opposed to environmentally friendly BTW) All three of the people who actually read it may have actually noticed, before returning to work and other more profitable distractions. Anyone unduly traumatised might want to call Claims Direct or something.

All in all it's been a f**king wasteful day. Woke up nice and early, saw the state of my blog, and set about trying to sort it out, whilst simultaneously preparing for the day ahead - which involved work; at least, I thought so.

For no sooner had I arrived at the location of my booking (an ad agency at the top of Dean street) when my contact there informed me "Erm, I'm sorry, I wanted you next week mate"

"Well at least I'm keen eh?" I ad-libbed furiously.

It was the agency's fault anyway.. the girl hadn't read her email properly and consequently I wasted most of a day traipsing in and out of London on a dismal rainy Thursday for nothing. Apart from a copy of Design Week and Batman Year 100.

Fuck I could've used that work.

Anyway. Applied to another agency in the meanwhile and fixed my blog. Ish. Last FM charts still haven't updated.

Other breaking news.

I remembered how to get italics in HTML, and have been enjoying them and bold tags. I suspect I might be getting carried away.

I saw someone getting 'busted' for drinking alcohol on the streets of Camberwell yesterday, in accordance with the new movement to get Camberwell looking less like Gin Lane and more like Pigeon Street. Nice and multicultural in a 'let's not shoot each other too much kind of way'.

The bust was executed by two of those Street Wardens, dressed in those terrible scarlet uniforms which alone seem to rob their role of any gravitas whatsoever. Suprisingly, the dude seemed to be cooperating (if looking a bit peeved) rather than swatting them out of the way and continuing his swaggering drinking gait up Camberwell Church Street.

A poster outside a newsagents also caused me to do a double-take. I initially saw:

"GRIEF AS CILLA DIES AGED 35"

Cilla? Cilla Black? Aged 35? nooo!? I thought, until I looked closer and realised 'CILLA' was actually 'CLLR', and hence an abbreviation of 'councillor'. Hmm.

Anyway. I fancy a pint now as I've been good this week, and, it transpires, for jack all. Strange things are afoot in my flat, with new, oestrogen fuelled tensions bubbling below the surface. Sigh.

I bought some joss sticks from the chinese superstore on Denmark hill, which I mentioned in my second post I think. They were really cheap (about two quid for two hundred or something) and I can see why as the one I've just lit has given me a headache. Til next time.

Myspace

Or Myspazz, whatever you want to call it, now currently occupies the block of my time who's last previous tenant was Faceparty (evicted mid 2005). It's something I return to with a faint feeling of distaste - for a variety of reasons but principally because it's one big popularity contest, and I was always the kid at school trying too hard to avoid getting spat on to worry about such things (that or drawing pictures of elves; laughably I didn't see the two as interlinked).

Who do I want to be friends with on Myspace? Well Deven Miles was an easy touch, and The Rub have graciously added me, but I've yet to hear back from Kwite Def of New York's 'Monster Island Czars'. Instead I'm Inevitably being propositioned by all sorts of other chancers.. the best one yet has to be Miki, who might be the campest thing ever, but also wins genius points for having himself in his own top eight, twice.. despite having 300 'friends'. I might simply approve him as judging by his makeup he's invented some kind of time machine and I always wondered what it was like to go out in Stockport in the 80s. Plus he also seems to have red electrical tape wound round his left upper arm, which I can't quite as yet grasp the semiotics of but I'm sure is tremendously important. Anyway. I can't pretend I haven't added people like this previously, but I got laughed at in the pub for it the other day, so might not bother anymore.

But there are other reasons too why Myspace is gash. First off, the dark emperor of Myspace (who also happens to share my 'real' name) Tom. I'll sometimes get all excited when my Gmail account informs me I've a new Myspace message, only for me to rock up and discover his stupid goon face leering out at me accompanied by a message supplying some ragged bit of HTML he wants me to use to patch up whatever errors him and his hired Myspace chimps made programming the site in the first place. Piss off. I wouldn't mind but I suspect he's probably richer off the back of this than I'll ever be, and he could at least do his job without delegating to users.

And the design.. well lets not even go there. 'Counterintuitive' sounds like a vague compliment when actually confronted by the plurality of buttons, tabs and other doohickeys that assault your senses upon opening a Myspace page. It's like someone sneezed Alphabetti-Spaghetti onto the screen: where the fuck is everything? What does this do? Actually sod that, I don't care.

A far better 'thing' I've discovered recently is Last FM, though for some reason it's not updated my chart this week on the right. I feel like my online self is out of sync with the flesh and blood me who has to do boring stuff like eat and clean the bathroom. Any ideas why? Answers to the usual address.

The patty spot

I don't pretend to know a great deal about West Indian food, but I am partial to the odd patty. Now, as far as these were concerned my destination of choice for said fluorescent orange snacks has hithertoo been Patty Island on Camberwell Church Street; and with a name like that, it makes sense. One of the dudes who works there also gave me and DJ Phaze some Irish Moss on the house one time, and for the unititiated, it's very sweet, has the consistency of Tixylix (remember that) and looks like the slime you used to get with 'The Real Ghostbusters' action figures. Tastes ok though.

But anyway. As of last weekend, I'm heading over to Peckham to score my patties, specifically from Gabbys, on Camberwell Church Street. They're chunkier (the saltfish ones actually had nodes of identifiable fish in them) tasty as hell, and they only cost a quid, wheras Patty Island have bumped their prices up to £1.20, or £1.50 for the lobster and shrimp flavour.!

Just beware of getting too enthusiastic with the pepper sauce.. it's toasty.

Weekend

The weekend was ok. Worked at Ogilvy in Canary Wharf on Friday, which was alright. Once again it was in the depths of the studio, which wasn't as dungeon-like as some I've been interred in, and actually had a pretty amazing view of London from its position on the 10th floor.

The work was easy enough, but for some reason I felt slightly on the back foot most of the day. The experience of walking into any international ad agency, usually with bling decor, then getting to grips with the local knowledge of servers, printers, pdfs, time sheets etc, can be slightly disconcerting, and the end of the day I was feeling quietly hopped having imbibed countless cups of grey flavourless coffee from the dispenser, and was looking forward to getting out of there between twitches.

That evening met up with Dunc for a beer in the Joiner's arms, as he was off to Honduras for three weeks, then went to Fabric, where my friend Sam was DJing.

Saturday was pretty miserable weather-wise, but my friend Marvyn was down for the night, as he's going to move in at the end of March. Yay! Cue beer consumption. This evening in the Hermits Cave and Castle.

So, at the minute I've not got a drinking buddy round here.. which is good. I might try and use it as an excuse to get out of Camberwell more, and/or drink less. Perhaps try and get some more things sorted. I went for an interview with a company on Regent Street today who specialise in helping people set up limited companies. I'm working on a logo as well, so might potentially go the full nine yards and get a business card and letterhead printed.

We'll see.

Valentine's Day

You can tell I'm not at work when I'm ressurecting old illustrations for Valentine's day e-cards. I actually received a parcel today which is waiting for me at the post office, but I think that's just something I ordered off ebay, rather than anything Valentine's Day oriented.

Corporate Hell/Weekend rundown

Well, I got some work, which is good. It's working in the graphics department of a huge multinational human resources consultancy, and basically involves adapting print documents for web pdfs, re-flowing text in newsletters and.. well, you get the picture. Slightly better rate than my normal though, which is good.

It is the textbook definition of corporate though, and I had to dress up smart for it. They had a dress down Friday but nobody mentioned this to me so I rocked up wearing button down shirt, and the pair of crap black trousers my housemate gave me that only see the light of day on ventures such as this. I took my unique 'smart' status with good humour, though.

My brother was actually in town on thursday, but I missed him because I was working.

Friday evening went to see Lady Vengeance with Will, at the Curzon. It's directed by the guy who did 'Oldboy', and it's a fucking well wierd beast, to say the least.

The oddest thing about it is the juxtaposition of some very disturbing themes with very black humour, though I must concede that a man who can inject comedy into a scene where parents are watching videotapes of their children being murdered is also a man of vision - just not necessarily one which most middle-englanders would subscribe to. Expect a Sun 'Ban This Evil Film' headline any day now.

Saturday I went for a big walk.. up to Borough market for a tantalising look at the wares on show, before heading up to Tower Bridge, then back down the Old Kent road. I'd intended to cut through to Camberwell, but instead found myself wandering through a large estate in Peckham. I quickened my pace somewhat, and eventually emerged behind the library.

And the evening was to feature Peckham again, as me and some friends met up at Bar Story, an urbane little oasis by Peckham Rye station. Nice food, beer etc. and all round, a nice lttle find (and it did take some finding, believe me).

Today I walked up to the Imperial War Museum and had a look round. The main hall is a bit like Superman's Fortress of Solitude - stuffed full of engines of destruction that stand as grim testement to both mankind's folly, and enthusiasm for developing exciting new ways of blowing other people to bits. I also checked out the holocaust exhibition, which was depressingly harrowing.

And tonight Matthew... its pizzas at BRB (burb) whic has to have one of the crappest names for a venue ever as it stands, apparently, for 'Bar Room Bar'. Lame. Must've been cooked up by the same guys responsible for that Southwark Cleaning 'Cleaning Southwark' tagline.

Oh and its nearly Valentine's day, which I always find bothersome as getting out my front door is hampered by the drifts of cards and letters I receive, har har etc. I've got a decent bottle of wine waiting for me at the Sun & Doves, just no-one to drink it with (sniff), so I'll probably spend the evening meeping round my flat and playing in webberspace.

Jay Dee

RIP. One of my favourite producers, the enigmatic Jay Dee, the guy who produced 'that' Slum Village album, and with credits lacing beats for A Tribe Called Quest and Kanye West among others, has died.

Tat

Today involved more recruitment interviews, this time north of Oxford street or, in 'Noho' if you're a sloganeering hipster ('Noho' being an acronym that I'm sure has 'Nohope' of being widely adopted)

It was, well, alright. The girl who interviewed me said she was sure she'd get me work soon. Then again, she would. It also involved a two hour mac test. Two hours. Jesus, what is happening to me? fair enough the interviewer did apologise, conceding: "we probably need to shorten it". No shit. Either that or pioneer life prolonging medical techniques by way of apology for wasting precious minutes of my life.

Just been to post a letter up Church Street, as the post box on Denmark Hill is 'out of order'. Quite how I'm not sure.

I've got this big metal tin box in my room, where I keep lots of random ephemera which I suspect it too important to chuck. This evening I delved into it for purposes of a general organise and spring clean. It was full of assorted tat from the intervening years when my mum bought it me one Christmas. Do you want to know what I found?

You do?

Well hush children, here is a sample of what I unearthed.

1. Numerous bank statements from the HSBC bank back when it was called The Midland.
2. Lots of Student loan correspondance.
3. Lots of yawnsome university literature with titles such as 'University Modular Scheme Assesment Regulations 1998' (I told you I only suspected it was important)
4. Notes for a university essay with quotes from trendy french theorists ("Dada and surrealism paradoxically revived objects to show them as irrationally split from modern, functionalist culture" etc.)
5. A typed out sheet of a web interview with DJ Q-bert of the Invisibl Skratch Picklz, where he talks about ducks a lot.
6. A poem I bought from a homeless man at the top of Christmas Steps in Bristol entitled 'SATAN WORKS AT MAC DONALDS' (sic)
7. About a dozen flyers for 'The Roots' at Bristol's Blue Mountain Club, 1997.
8. An invoice from Oasis Sound & Lighting Centre, 46 North Street, Bedminster for a PMX7 vestax mixer. As I recall, they did a crappy job of fixing said mixer when it broke later that year, glueing, rather than replacing a part. Cowboys.
9. A Technics 1200 manual dated 1989.
10. A photocopy of a bill from 1805, proclaiming victory over France and Spain and the death of Nelson, sent by my uncle along with a obtuse press clipping saying "Alcohol and prosac do not mix well". Er..
11. Various letters from a range of people, including: a letter sent by friend Will from India on grainy thin paper, a letter from my friend Dan Sarabji when he lived in Leeds (with roleplaying stats scribbled in corners), and some old letters from my long time ex-girlfriend Rekha.
12. Some Loctite superglue - which is about the most useful thing there.

I'm going to keep the letters and some other bits. The rest I might burn or something. Its annoying me. Unless anyone else wants it (serious bidders only please).

Then I'll have a nice new empty box, ready to fill again with yet more miscellany.

Blog Meet

The week came, and the week went.

I seem to spend a lot of the daylight, and indeed quite a lot of the twilight hours, hunched over my Mac, doing furtive webby things. Have been getting a lot more into my illustration recently too, though whether that's actually going to pay off is another matter; I'd really like to get paid to do this, and, more illustration-based design, but I find it hard to tell whether this is a pipe dream, or what. If my life is a parable, what will I be in the future when this tale has run its course? ant or grasshopper? industrious communal creature suffused with work ethic, or shiftless dreaming wretch, moving vectors round on a laptop screen?* Answers on a postcard please etc. etc.

Saturday was 'It's Bigger Than' again. This time they had Tom Middleton of Jedi Knights fame guesting, and he was very good - indeed as Gridrunner noted, "on brief" with his selection of electro house funkiness, and erm, Dead Prez. I resisted the urge to bite someone on this occasion, though Deven Miles did say I looked (and I quote) "like a mad crazy tramp". Charming. Also bumped into two of the guys I worked with at M&C Saatchi last year, so had a chinwag with them. Leaving the club, I lost DJ Phase on Brick Lane whilst stocking up on salt beef bagels. It was just as well I did too, as I ended up walking back to Elephant due to bus absence.

Sunday was the day of the Camberwell blogger meet up, and I must admit I was initially slightly apprehensive. Would we actually have anything to say to each other, or would it be more a long sequence of uncomfortable silences? Do any of us actually exist? Yes and no and yes were the answers to those questions, and it was really good fun - here we be. Personally I think we should all be in a 19th century drawing room having just signed something.

Anyway. More recruitment interviews this week, and the people today seemed really.. nice, which seems a flat contradiction. Most recruitment types posesses all the human warmth of single celled protazoa, but there must have been some rapid evolution going on in Clerkenwell as everone seemed to be vertebrate and warm blooded.

*Though actually, I think in the story the ants end up looking after the grasshopper come winter, like mugs.