So, nice June we had there eh? Quite often I've awoken recently, and peeked out the window to see a crystal clear blue sky, only for it vanish a couple of hours later, obsucred behind uniform shapeless grey clouds, clogging the horizon like discarded carrier bags.
I hate this weather. Coming from Manchester I'm used to most things wet and inclement, but I think I'd choose just about anything over grey and muggy: rain, wind, cold, storms, snow, hail, giant radioactive crayfish strafing London with lazers from their eyes..
It feels like such 'pregnant' weather to me; an anticipation of something else. Everything feels so close and tense. I find myself itching for something to happen that might dissipate the charge in the air, even if it's just some rain. There is the odd window in the clouds, reminding you there's a sun up there, and when its rays get through, everything seems glorious for about five minutes, until the next bank of cloud shuffles along to park up the space.
I read in the paper yesterday that this is the weather predicted for most of summer as well, so better get used to it I suppose. How dismal.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Sainsburys
I went to West Hampstead last night, to Will and Sam's, along with Ade and Rachael, where we ate Jewish food (chicken, bagels, chicken liver pate, pickled cucumbers) drank (red wine, beer) and stood smoking on Will's Balcony staring at the rainswept glory of London at night below us; the London Eye in the distance picked out in the red and blue colourways of BA, trains shunting through Kilburn aglow.
Crossing the river to north London was a quest of epic proportions however.. a bit like Escape From New York minus eyepatches. Having encountered complete gridlock, we eventually gave up trying to drive at Victoria and ditched the car, plumping instead for the tube, which was itself fit to bursting. Perhaps inevitably, the Victoria Line was down, which entailed jumping on the District Line to Sloane Square, thence north on the Picadilly to the Jubilee at Green Park. All in all a journey that should have taken forty-five minutes probably took the best part of two hours.
The journey back was much less frought however, and we managed it in something around an hour. Disembarking the tube at Green Park, and walking past Buckingham Palace to the car. I got in, read, and went to sleep.
Today I went to consumer paradise.
Today I went to Sainsburys in Dulwich. More out of curiosity than anything else.. I was walking past and thought I'd have a look in.
It was a revelation. Wheras the Somerfield(s) of Camberwell are some of the bleakest places in the UK outside Hull, the Dulwich Somerfield is almost utopian in its allure. Vast and suffused with light, it resembles how I imagine the hangar of an Ian M Banks starship might look, and I could, upon entry, all but pick out angels with strollers cavorting at the extent of my vision, in the aisles untold miles away.
Taking a walk round Dulwich feels a bit like walking round the interior of an 80gb iPod, everything is so pristine and aspirational. Sometimes in the Somerfield in Camberwell in the evenings, you're lucky if you can locate a single potato and some cheap, bloodshot chicken goujons to fight over with knives. Here all matter of wonders were on display. Want Oak Veneer CD cases?: Check. Want glass and chrome finish soap dispensers?: you got it.
I wandered agog, not knowing where to look, in the midst of this grocery porn. The meat counter was futuristic, a fog bank of super chilled air rolling across the morsels on display like dry ice. Further along, I paused in front of a rack of Jamie Oliver's own brand merchandise, noting the sparing design, left aligned sans-serif typeface* and bright optimistic pantone swatches that denote a socially ambitious brand.
Across the way: A wall of Pasta, imported from Italy. But no ordinary pasta, for it was so hugely outsized each individual pasta shell resembled a Claes Oldenburg sculpture.. they were like giant clams, and probably cost enough to warrant the inclusion of individual pearls, but no matter, the spectacle itself sated certain appetites I had long forgotten.
I bought relatively little.. some yoghurt, fruit juice, corn-fed chicken and some Laksa Paste by Ruben Solomon, which I never see anywhere, and consequently revere. The checkouts were like runways, moving walkways for food.. the transaction itself painless. I stumbled out onto Dog Kennel hill feeling like I'd participated in a promotional tour of a shopping centre in Rivendell. It even has a Starbucks ferchrissakes.
I'll be going back at some point, I should think. For all its self-conciously dowdy personna, Somerfield is brutally expensive, so there's little to choose between them there. It's a little further away, true, but then so is heaven, and here Sainsburys has the advantage of actually existing. The gates of this consumer paradise are open to all who can afford it, and it looks reassuringly expensive.
*Lubalin Graph, I think.
Crossing the river to north London was a quest of epic proportions however.. a bit like Escape From New York minus eyepatches. Having encountered complete gridlock, we eventually gave up trying to drive at Victoria and ditched the car, plumping instead for the tube, which was itself fit to bursting. Perhaps inevitably, the Victoria Line was down, which entailed jumping on the District Line to Sloane Square, thence north on the Picadilly to the Jubilee at Green Park. All in all a journey that should have taken forty-five minutes probably took the best part of two hours.
The journey back was much less frought however, and we managed it in something around an hour. Disembarking the tube at Green Park, and walking past Buckingham Palace to the car. I got in, read, and went to sleep.
Today I went to consumer paradise.
Today I went to Sainsburys in Dulwich. More out of curiosity than anything else.. I was walking past and thought I'd have a look in.
It was a revelation. Wheras the Somerfield(s) of Camberwell are some of the bleakest places in the UK outside Hull, the Dulwich Somerfield is almost utopian in its allure. Vast and suffused with light, it resembles how I imagine the hangar of an Ian M Banks starship might look, and I could, upon entry, all but pick out angels with strollers cavorting at the extent of my vision, in the aisles untold miles away.
Taking a walk round Dulwich feels a bit like walking round the interior of an 80gb iPod, everything is so pristine and aspirational. Sometimes in the Somerfield in Camberwell in the evenings, you're lucky if you can locate a single potato and some cheap, bloodshot chicken goujons to fight over with knives. Here all matter of wonders were on display. Want Oak Veneer CD cases?: Check. Want glass and chrome finish soap dispensers?: you got it.
I wandered agog, not knowing where to look, in the midst of this grocery porn. The meat counter was futuristic, a fog bank of super chilled air rolling across the morsels on display like dry ice. Further along, I paused in front of a rack of Jamie Oliver's own brand merchandise, noting the sparing design, left aligned sans-serif typeface* and bright optimistic pantone swatches that denote a socially ambitious brand.
Across the way: A wall of Pasta, imported from Italy. But no ordinary pasta, for it was so hugely outsized each individual pasta shell resembled a Claes Oldenburg sculpture.. they were like giant clams, and probably cost enough to warrant the inclusion of individual pearls, but no matter, the spectacle itself sated certain appetites I had long forgotten.
I bought relatively little.. some yoghurt, fruit juice, corn-fed chicken and some Laksa Paste by Ruben Solomon, which I never see anywhere, and consequently revere. The checkouts were like runways, moving walkways for food.. the transaction itself painless. I stumbled out onto Dog Kennel hill feeling like I'd participated in a promotional tour of a shopping centre in Rivendell. It even has a Starbucks ferchrissakes.
I'll be going back at some point, I should think. For all its self-conciously dowdy personna, Somerfield is brutally expensive, so there's little to choose between them there. It's a little further away, true, but then so is heaven, and here Sainsburys has the advantage of actually existing. The gates of this consumer paradise are open to all who can afford it, and it looks reassuringly expensive.
*Lubalin Graph, I think.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
A pied
Went for a walk on Sunday, to clear the cobwebs out of my head. Burnt some serious crepe sole pounding the streets from the South to the East. It was a sodden day.. the heavens opened halfway up the Walworth road, and would have drenched me utterly had I not been under the aegis of a tatty USMC gore-tex.
From Elephant I walked up to London Bridge, and thence crossed to Monument, where I went up the, um, monument, built to comemmorate the great fire. The inside consists of a very narrow spiral staircase. There are 311 steps, and it narrows towards the top, and peering over the railing into the central space, I was gripped by vertigo. I was wearing Clarks Wallabees, which after having been worn for a while, I've found to be utterly treacherous in the rain. On the wet stairs, they provided all the traction of cartoon banana skins, and my descent was much slower as I gripped the bannister like a zimmerframe. The view from the top is good, but like a forest of buildings.
From here I wandered up to Liverpool Street, and then Brick Lane to check out the markets. I think my favourite bit of the market is the assorted chancers who congregate round the Shoreditch end, trying to sell whatever miscellaneous tat they can off blankets. I don't think they've got licences or anything, and I got some distrusful looks as I snapped away with my camera, especially off a girls selling fake DVDs off a blanket. Also passed the 24 hour bagel shops which have proven the answer to post club munchies on quite a few ocassions
From here I walked up to Shoreditch, and up Old street, heading up past the tube to Farringdon, and then Soho, where I wound up at Oxford circus and caught a 12 back to Camberwell.
A round walk of around 20K I think.
From Elephant I walked up to London Bridge, and thence crossed to Monument, where I went up the, um, monument, built to comemmorate the great fire. The inside consists of a very narrow spiral staircase. There are 311 steps, and it narrows towards the top, and peering over the railing into the central space, I was gripped by vertigo. I was wearing Clarks Wallabees, which after having been worn for a while, I've found to be utterly treacherous in the rain. On the wet stairs, they provided all the traction of cartoon banana skins, and my descent was much slower as I gripped the bannister like a zimmerframe. The view from the top is good, but like a forest of buildings.
From here I wandered up to Liverpool Street, and then Brick Lane to check out the markets. I think my favourite bit of the market is the assorted chancers who congregate round the Shoreditch end, trying to sell whatever miscellaneous tat they can off blankets. I don't think they've got licences or anything, and I got some distrusful looks as I snapped away with my camera, especially off a girls selling fake DVDs off a blanket. Also passed the 24 hour bagel shops which have proven the answer to post club munchies on quite a few ocassions
From here I walked up to Shoreditch, and up Old street, heading up past the tube to Farringdon, and then Soho, where I wound up at Oxford circus and caught a 12 back to Camberwell.
A round walk of around 20K I think.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Peppertree
I headed down to Clapham last night after work, where I met up with Liam and Kerryn, Dave, Ian and Sam – just back from his honeymoon.
We went to The Peppertree for a bite to eat.. a little place facing the common which does Thai food.
It was very busy, with people queing most of the time, but the turnaround was brisk. Its ethos seems to be decent food quite fast.. which it does well. The menu is pared down and while not compendious, almost makes a virtue of simplicity of choice.
Having become the gastronomic cliche that it is, it's sometimes easy to forget how nice Thai food can be, and this was a refreshing affirmation. My Thai green prawn curry with coconut rice was zingy and subtly hot, and I polished it off with a bottle of crisp Thai Singha beer.
The portions were exactly right too.. just enough and no more, though accurately priced to reflect this. At the end of the meal I left feeling neither light in the wallet or heavy in the stomach. I'd go there again, and if that is not enough of a recommendation there was a certain Guardian columnist chowing down there that evening, so it must be good.
After that we headed a few doors up to the Alex for a pint. The Alex is stuffed to the gills with assorted reclamation yard tat such as old tin shop signs, yet is actually not a bad boozer for that part of Clapham.
After that I jumped on the bus back home to Camberwell. Jess was sat up with her friend Lucy, having returned from quarantine at her mum and dads after contracting chicken pox. She'd brought some pebbles back from the beach, which were so smooth they felt soft to the touch. They were from the shore at Dunwich, site of a village which was swallowed by the sea over the course of several hundred years (and is not to be confused with the fictional Dunwich in Massachusetts in HP Lovecraft's 'The Dunwich Horror'. I read a bit before bed then eventually fell asleep.
Wednesday today. Quiet at work, cloudy outside. I'm munching on chilli crackers from the market in Soho, and thinking of things I can cross of the weeks 'to do' list today. It's nearly lunchtime, so I might go out and look for a linen basket.
We went to The Peppertree for a bite to eat.. a little place facing the common which does Thai food.
It was very busy, with people queing most of the time, but the turnaround was brisk. Its ethos seems to be decent food quite fast.. which it does well. The menu is pared down and while not compendious, almost makes a virtue of simplicity of choice.
Having become the gastronomic cliche that it is, it's sometimes easy to forget how nice Thai food can be, and this was a refreshing affirmation. My Thai green prawn curry with coconut rice was zingy and subtly hot, and I polished it off with a bottle of crisp Thai Singha beer.
The portions were exactly right too.. just enough and no more, though accurately priced to reflect this. At the end of the meal I left feeling neither light in the wallet or heavy in the stomach. I'd go there again, and if that is not enough of a recommendation there was a certain Guardian columnist chowing down there that evening, so it must be good.
After that we headed a few doors up to the Alex for a pint. The Alex is stuffed to the gills with assorted reclamation yard tat such as old tin shop signs, yet is actually not a bad boozer for that part of Clapham.
After that I jumped on the bus back home to Camberwell. Jess was sat up with her friend Lucy, having returned from quarantine at her mum and dads after contracting chicken pox. She'd brought some pebbles back from the beach, which were so smooth they felt soft to the touch. They were from the shore at Dunwich, site of a village which was swallowed by the sea over the course of several hundred years (and is not to be confused with the fictional Dunwich in Massachusetts in HP Lovecraft's 'The Dunwich Horror'. I read a bit before bed then eventually fell asleep.
Wednesday today. Quiet at work, cloudy outside. I'm munching on chilli crackers from the market in Soho, and thinking of things I can cross of the weeks 'to do' list today. It's nearly lunchtime, so I might go out and look for a linen basket.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Malletti
I met my dad yesterday for lunch, and on the advice of Simon and Tommy, we went and got sandwiches from Malletti, which we sat and ate on a bench in Soho Square, whilst swiping at the encroaching pigeons with our feet.
We both got focaccia sandwiches, which I must say, were really good, if not quite on a par with those of the sadly departed Il Panino. If Il Panino's closure represented the spiritual demise of the Italian Soho sandwich shop to me, Malletti symbolises a resurrection of sorts. Where has Malletti been all my life? Ok Noel Street, same as it always has.
Today I bought another of their focaccias, which I took back to my desk and wolfed down – and you do almost need the assumed powers of some totem beast (a la Bravestarr or The Phantom) – to actually consume one, so densely packed are they with ingredients.
This one was stuffed with mozarella, and eating it my cheeks and chin were soon lashed to the sandwich with tentacles of melted cheese. It felt a bit like a vegetarian version of the infamous 'squid scene' from Oldboy. It was pretty difficult to eat tidily, though I tried to look as inconspicuos as possible to the studio manager sitting directly opposite me, as sundry fillings from my meal made a desperate bid for freedom across the laminate desktop. When she later mentioned that they wouldn't need me the next day however, I couldn't quite quell the nagging suspicion that it was related to my choice of lunch.
No matter, I've found somewhere new to visit for lunch in Soho, and I haven't even got started on the pizzas yet, of which they have an exciting selection. I'll be returning soon.
We both got focaccia sandwiches, which I must say, were really good, if not quite on a par with those of the sadly departed Il Panino. If Il Panino's closure represented the spiritual demise of the Italian Soho sandwich shop to me, Malletti symbolises a resurrection of sorts. Where has Malletti been all my life? Ok Noel Street, same as it always has.
Today I bought another of their focaccias, which I took back to my desk and wolfed down – and you do almost need the assumed powers of some totem beast (a la Bravestarr or The Phantom) – to actually consume one, so densely packed are they with ingredients.
This one was stuffed with mozarella, and eating it my cheeks and chin were soon lashed to the sandwich with tentacles of melted cheese. It felt a bit like a vegetarian version of the infamous 'squid scene' from Oldboy. It was pretty difficult to eat tidily, though I tried to look as inconspicuos as possible to the studio manager sitting directly opposite me, as sundry fillings from my meal made a desperate bid for freedom across the laminate desktop. When she later mentioned that they wouldn't need me the next day however, I couldn't quite quell the nagging suspicion that it was related to my choice of lunch.
No matter, I've found somewhere new to visit for lunch in Soho, and I haven't even got started on the pizzas yet, of which they have an exciting selection. I'll be returning soon.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
I've been meddling..
..with dark forces I barely understand (HTML) in the cause of ringing in some cosmetic changes.
Hopefully, all links will be up and running in the next couple of days, along with a new profile thing, if you're bothered.
In the meanwhile, here's a weird bit of claymation I dug up on youtube.
Enjoy.
Hopefully, all links will be up and running in the next couple of days, along with a new profile thing, if you're bothered.
In the meanwhile, here's a weird bit of claymation I dug up on youtube.
Enjoy.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Extra brain, Barnet Fair, Whitstable, Wedding.
Well this has been one of the nicest weekends since records began, which in the case of this blog, has been going on for two years now. It was the weekend of my friends Sam and Kays' wedding, but more on that later.
My booking wound up on Thursday, which was fine. It was in Victoria, which I can never get too excited about, though I did get to work on some design, which was good.
On Friday I went to the Graphics Centre on Camberwell New Road, which in keeping with the trend currently sweeping independent retailers in London, is shutting down. Shame really, as they had a really good range of art supplies in general. They were pretty cheap anyway, but on this ocassion were flogging everything around half price in an attempt just to shift it.
I bought a stapler, which pretty much sums up the direction my life is going really. I think it'll be handy for keeping receipts together, or just generally feeling good about having a stapler.
I also bought some ink, a couple of hard backed pads, and a few mini Pentel sign pens, with lanyards attached. I've 'formed them like Voltron' to create a kind of portable brain for me to store information. Granted my own brain is fairly portable, but my memory for numbers and addresses somewhat hazy. Besides, I, like anyone who's ever made a mixtape, secretly delight in lists.
I also got my hair cut at Fish in Soho, which I was pleased with. More expensive than the guy who usually cuts it Manchester but smart nonetheless.. just what I wanted. I don't think I've had my hair washed by anyone else since I was about three however, so that was quite a strange experience. The guy who was cutting my hair suggested I should get a Christian Dior suit to match the haircut, which would be good if I could afford such things. I did however spend some time in Liberties covetously fingering an APC jacket, which was, in the end, just a little too small. I left it.
After that I hooked up with Al and Dunc at the John Snow for a couple of beers. Dunc was just arrived back from Barcelona where he's been variously teaching English and trying not to get arrested, with some success in both. After that, we rolled back to Camberwell, where we got a bite to eat at Tadims on Camberwell Church street, which is as cheap as the chips they copiously garland your plate with. Tadim's are not – by default – advocates of any low carb diet. Still. it's not bad. Decent enough.
After that, wandered over to the Hermits Cave, which is mentioned in a book by Paul Ewen, called London Pub Reviews, which is actually a quite surreal series of vignettes involving boozers, rather than a more prosaic set of opinions. We sat there quite late, before rolling back to mine and sitting up even later.
Saturday was the day of the wedding, so we were up with the lark to catch the train, though the lark had a distinct advantage in the gift of flight, which negated having to catch the sweaty 436 bus to Victoria. As we did. There we met up with Peed outside Marks and Spencers, who'd left his shoes at Liams, so would have to wear his suit with trainers.
We got to Whitstable and checked into our accomodation.. one of those utterly unremarkable Travelodge numbers, which are completely interchangeable with one another. Indeed, it's quite fitting that there is hardly any stand out between the main rival brands (Travelodge and Premier Travel Inn) so mundane is the format overall. After that we had a bit of a wait for our taxi, which was booked for three, but annoyingly, arrived over quarter of an hour late.
This had the knock on effect of making us late for the ceremony, and rolling up like chumps after the vows had been exchanged. Still. We got the gist I suppose.
After that, we headed to the reception. which was held at the The Sportsman Inn in Faversham. The setting by the sea was amazing and it was a gorgeous day for it.. with a clear blue sky and the sun beaming overhead. Sam and Kay looked crisp in informal wedding attire, the bridesmaids looked lovely and in general everyone had turned out in their freshly ironed best clobber. The food was great too – a buffet with a seafood bias along with other bits. I baulked at an oyster, but that was mostly because I was still feeling slightly wobbly from the night before. We went down to the beach nearby and skimmed stones and drank beer, and I sang the refrain from 'Sea King' by Hawkwind until Will intimated I stop.
I love weddings, and wedding receptions. Where else do you ever find yourself dancing to the O'Jays next to someone thirty years your senior whilst wearing brogues? Actually, that'd be the modern soul room at a northern soul night wouldn't it. Anyway, after an impressive speech by Sam and the best man, the big dawg, Dan, his brother, the tables were cleared and music supplied by by him and Sam's colleague and DJ partner Leo. They turned the party out until around half eleven, when the sound system chose to pack up for half an hour. After that, people jumped in taxis and headed home, mostly somewhat unsteadily.
This morning we headed to Whitstable for breakfast. I chose now to give an oyster a try. Not bad. Salty. Whitstable seems quite a nice place, quite olde worlde without being overbearingly cheesy. There seemed to be quite a few charity shops, and we even found a gallery selling lots hip prints by people like Keith Haring, Paul Insect and the ubiquitous Banksy.
I've heard that when you drown, it is as though your life flashes before your life, and it is fitting that Whitstable is by the sea as our walk around it felt much like the night before being replayed, as we bumped into people from London who'd been at the reception.
We ate at a place called Tea and Times, which was OK. The food was nice but the service a bit wonky, and after that, caught a lift back home with Ade and Rachael, after bidding a fond farewell to Dunc and Peed, off to Barcelona and Stockport respectively.
Home is quiet and I was the only one in. Rustled up a simple pasta dish from a George Locatelli recipe. I've just finished watching American History X, and I might go to bed now, and read a little of The Knight by Gene Wolfe, which is about an American kid being transported to a fantastic land where he becomes a Conan-esque hero. It's quite opaque and mysterious like much of Wolfe's stuff, but from I can work out, I think he's actually in a coma, and his visions are inspired by Second Life style online gaming. Quite odd.
No work tomorrow (as yet) but lots to be getting on with.
My booking wound up on Thursday, which was fine. It was in Victoria, which I can never get too excited about, though I did get to work on some design, which was good.
On Friday I went to the Graphics Centre on Camberwell New Road, which in keeping with the trend currently sweeping independent retailers in London, is shutting down. Shame really, as they had a really good range of art supplies in general. They were pretty cheap anyway, but on this ocassion were flogging everything around half price in an attempt just to shift it.
I bought a stapler, which pretty much sums up the direction my life is going really. I think it'll be handy for keeping receipts together, or just generally feeling good about having a stapler.
I also bought some ink, a couple of hard backed pads, and a few mini Pentel sign pens, with lanyards attached. I've 'formed them like Voltron' to create a kind of portable brain for me to store information. Granted my own brain is fairly portable, but my memory for numbers and addresses somewhat hazy. Besides, I, like anyone who's ever made a mixtape, secretly delight in lists.
I also got my hair cut at Fish in Soho, which I was pleased with. More expensive than the guy who usually cuts it Manchester but smart nonetheless.. just what I wanted. I don't think I've had my hair washed by anyone else since I was about three however, so that was quite a strange experience. The guy who was cutting my hair suggested I should get a Christian Dior suit to match the haircut, which would be good if I could afford such things. I did however spend some time in Liberties covetously fingering an APC jacket, which was, in the end, just a little too small. I left it.
After that I hooked up with Al and Dunc at the John Snow for a couple of beers. Dunc was just arrived back from Barcelona where he's been variously teaching English and trying not to get arrested, with some success in both. After that, we rolled back to Camberwell, where we got a bite to eat at Tadims on Camberwell Church street, which is as cheap as the chips they copiously garland your plate with. Tadim's are not – by default – advocates of any low carb diet. Still. it's not bad. Decent enough.
After that, wandered over to the Hermits Cave, which is mentioned in a book by Paul Ewen, called London Pub Reviews, which is actually a quite surreal series of vignettes involving boozers, rather than a more prosaic set of opinions. We sat there quite late, before rolling back to mine and sitting up even later.
Saturday was the day of the wedding, so we were up with the lark to catch the train, though the lark had a distinct advantage in the gift of flight, which negated having to catch the sweaty 436 bus to Victoria. As we did. There we met up with Peed outside Marks and Spencers, who'd left his shoes at Liams, so would have to wear his suit with trainers.
We got to Whitstable and checked into our accomodation.. one of those utterly unremarkable Travelodge numbers, which are completely interchangeable with one another. Indeed, it's quite fitting that there is hardly any stand out between the main rival brands (Travelodge and Premier Travel Inn) so mundane is the format overall. After that we had a bit of a wait for our taxi, which was booked for three, but annoyingly, arrived over quarter of an hour late.
This had the knock on effect of making us late for the ceremony, and rolling up like chumps after the vows had been exchanged. Still. We got the gist I suppose.
After that, we headed to the reception. which was held at the The Sportsman Inn in Faversham. The setting by the sea was amazing and it was a gorgeous day for it.. with a clear blue sky and the sun beaming overhead. Sam and Kay looked crisp in informal wedding attire, the bridesmaids looked lovely and in general everyone had turned out in their freshly ironed best clobber. The food was great too – a buffet with a seafood bias along with other bits. I baulked at an oyster, but that was mostly because I was still feeling slightly wobbly from the night before. We went down to the beach nearby and skimmed stones and drank beer, and I sang the refrain from 'Sea King' by Hawkwind until Will intimated I stop.
I love weddings, and wedding receptions. Where else do you ever find yourself dancing to the O'Jays next to someone thirty years your senior whilst wearing brogues? Actually, that'd be the modern soul room at a northern soul night wouldn't it. Anyway, after an impressive speech by Sam and the best man, the big dawg, Dan, his brother, the tables were cleared and music supplied by by him and Sam's colleague and DJ partner Leo. They turned the party out until around half eleven, when the sound system chose to pack up for half an hour. After that, people jumped in taxis and headed home, mostly somewhat unsteadily.
This morning we headed to Whitstable for breakfast. I chose now to give an oyster a try. Not bad. Salty. Whitstable seems quite a nice place, quite olde worlde without being overbearingly cheesy. There seemed to be quite a few charity shops, and we even found a gallery selling lots hip prints by people like Keith Haring, Paul Insect and the ubiquitous Banksy.
I've heard that when you drown, it is as though your life flashes before your life, and it is fitting that Whitstable is by the sea as our walk around it felt much like the night before being replayed, as we bumped into people from London who'd been at the reception.
We ate at a place called Tea and Times, which was OK. The food was nice but the service a bit wonky, and after that, caught a lift back home with Ade and Rachael, after bidding a fond farewell to Dunc and Peed, off to Barcelona and Stockport respectively.
Home is quiet and I was the only one in. Rustled up a simple pasta dish from a George Locatelli recipe. I've just finished watching American History X, and I might go to bed now, and read a little of The Knight by Gene Wolfe, which is about an American kid being transported to a fantastic land where he becomes a Conan-esque hero. It's quite opaque and mysterious like much of Wolfe's stuff, but from I can work out, I think he's actually in a coma, and his visions are inspired by Second Life style online gaming. Quite odd.
No work tomorrow (as yet) but lots to be getting on with.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Wet Wednesday..
I'm not working this week.. which was an actual decision on my part. Firstly because I've got some boring stuff to sort out, secondly because I've got some interesting things to do, and thirdly, because last week at work was so boring it was in itself a strong argument for entire new sub-categories of tedious. Most of the week ground agonisingly by making minute cosmetic changes to a bit of direct mail that was, ultimately, always going to be a bit of direct mail. I must have reworked the same 'roundel' device regarding the amazing value of an offer at least three times. But mostly I didn't have very much to do at all, which meant I just sat in the corner of the compact agency I was ensconced in, alternately browsing the internet and fidgeting. Easy money in some ways, but excruciatingly dull in most others.
On the subject of boring stuff I've sorted out some outstanding NIC and PAYE contributions that I thought had been paid ages ago. Obviously the black hole of the British postal service had simply swallowed the cheque as I kept recieving ominous letters from the Inland Revenue. What always gets right on my tits about this is that the office in question is perpetually un-contactable, the phone eternally engaged. In idle moments I imagine it off the hook in a chained and locked, airtight filing cabinet somewhere beneath the Bristol Channel, but the truth is probably far more prosaic (a single phone in an office, everyone is trying to ring).
I've also just managed to pay a bunch of cheques in, having waited quite a while for the full hand to appear..
Other things I need to resolve are my tax self-assessment, though before I can do that, the next major hurdle on the horizon is sorting out who does my accounting, as the current bunch have totally failed to impress me. I requested a breakdown of what I paid them last year, and when it arrived (via email, a week or too later) I practically had to steady myself. To say: "they're not cheap" would be a gross understatement. Theyre singularly inneficient as well.. I rang up yesterday for some advice on a relatively simple matter, was put on hold for ten minutes, cut off, rang up again, asked what my number was ("er, this one you just rang me on") then promised someone would ring me back later in the day (they didn't). Crap. So I think I'll take my money elsewhere.
In other news, having a quick rifle through my wardrobe the other day I discovered that moths have been dining out on my Katherine Hamnett suit. It's riddled with tiny holes, and looks like someone has been exchanging blowbacks with hash reefers over my left shoulder. In truth, I only wore to job interviews for jobs I never wanted anyway, which is good as it's probably only good for sacraficial moth food now. However, in a quest to limit the spread of this rot, I hastened to the 99p store on Butterfly Walk.
I just finished reading a book called 'The Animal Factory' by Edward Bunker (who played Mr Blue in Reservoir Dogs), which is set in San Quentin prison, California, and circumnavigating the aforementioned store is much like what I imagine it to be like crossing the yard in that – both physically and psychologically hazardous. Nonetheless, I got got out alive and in posession of moth balls, which I proceeded to secrete around my wardrobe.
I've since removed them all, for the simple reason that they fucking stank. I've little doubt that they might have some success at repelling moths, but at the almost certain cost of repelling or poisoning me as well; I get the distinct impression they are insanely toxic, in spite of their benign, mint-like like appearance.
I hear cedar wood is the classic moth-repellant, though I don't think I'm in the market for a cedar-wood wardrobe just yet. The internet tells me a more expedient solution is to simply give clothes a good airing every once in a while, though of course this presents problems of its own, living in a gardenless flat in London.
Anyway. I've got some interesting things to do, and am going to look at a flat this evening.. though it costs a bit (alright, quite a lot) more than I really want to spend..
On the subject of boring stuff I've sorted out some outstanding NIC and PAYE contributions that I thought had been paid ages ago. Obviously the black hole of the British postal service had simply swallowed the cheque as I kept recieving ominous letters from the Inland Revenue. What always gets right on my tits about this is that the office in question is perpetually un-contactable, the phone eternally engaged. In idle moments I imagine it off the hook in a chained and locked, airtight filing cabinet somewhere beneath the Bristol Channel, but the truth is probably far more prosaic (a single phone in an office, everyone is trying to ring).
I've also just managed to pay a bunch of cheques in, having waited quite a while for the full hand to appear..
Other things I need to resolve are my tax self-assessment, though before I can do that, the next major hurdle on the horizon is sorting out who does my accounting, as the current bunch have totally failed to impress me. I requested a breakdown of what I paid them last year, and when it arrived (via email, a week or too later) I practically had to steady myself. To say: "they're not cheap" would be a gross understatement. Theyre singularly inneficient as well.. I rang up yesterday for some advice on a relatively simple matter, was put on hold for ten minutes, cut off, rang up again, asked what my number was ("er, this one you just rang me on") then promised someone would ring me back later in the day (they didn't). Crap. So I think I'll take my money elsewhere.
In other news, having a quick rifle through my wardrobe the other day I discovered that moths have been dining out on my Katherine Hamnett suit. It's riddled with tiny holes, and looks like someone has been exchanging blowbacks with hash reefers over my left shoulder. In truth, I only wore to job interviews for jobs I never wanted anyway, which is good as it's probably only good for sacraficial moth food now. However, in a quest to limit the spread of this rot, I hastened to the 99p store on Butterfly Walk.
I just finished reading a book called 'The Animal Factory' by Edward Bunker (who played Mr Blue in Reservoir Dogs), which is set in San Quentin prison, California, and circumnavigating the aforementioned store is much like what I imagine it to be like crossing the yard in that – both physically and psychologically hazardous. Nonetheless, I got got out alive and in posession of moth balls, which I proceeded to secrete around my wardrobe.
I've since removed them all, for the simple reason that they fucking stank. I've little doubt that they might have some success at repelling moths, but at the almost certain cost of repelling or poisoning me as well; I get the distinct impression they are insanely toxic, in spite of their benign, mint-like like appearance.
I hear cedar wood is the classic moth-repellant, though I don't think I'm in the market for a cedar-wood wardrobe just yet. The internet tells me a more expedient solution is to simply give clothes a good airing every once in a while, though of course this presents problems of its own, living in a gardenless flat in London.
Anyway. I've got some interesting things to do, and am going to look at a flat this evening.. though it costs a bit (alright, quite a lot) more than I really want to spend..
Friday, May 25, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
28 weeks later
I went and saw 28 Weeks later at the Ritzy with Ed on Monday night, having planned to go and watch Zodiac, which was suddenly cancelled.
It's intense. If you've seen the original, you know what to expect: mobs of beserk inhumans, infected with bloodlust, rampaging through the streets of a post-apocalyptic London; only in this, the second installment of what seems destined to become at least a trilogy, its creators have dialled up the volume to about 15. This is Aliens to 28 Days Later's Alien, replete with marines and an exponentially vaster bodycount. This is a sequel that's been chained to a radiator in a basement, injected with crystal meth and forced to watch shaky handcam footage of war.
After a terrifying opening with Bobby Carlyle and some other fugitives hole up in a cottage, the action switches to London, where the American Military are seeking to repopulate London from the Isle of Dogs, now that the infected have starved to death. To cut to the chase, the disease of the first film has not been eradicated (there is a carrier) and with a fresh outbreak things go from bad, to worse, to extremely bad with extreme rapidity. Quarantine compromised, the jarheads running the show proceed to the zombie equivalent of defcon 1, liquidating everything in their crosshairs, infected or not.
It's an extremely effective film. A nasty cathartic hit, exhilerating and terrifying. There are some barnyard door sized holes in the plot which I could feel the draught from three rows in, but then, this is a genre that thrives on gross errors of judgement; on people going into cellars when you know they shouldn't have. As with most horror films, suspension of disbelief is key.
The political analogies of the film have been written about enough already, and in some ways they are pretty rudimentary, but the hubris of the military and indiscriminate firestorm that ensues seems – bizarrely – believable, as refugees and the infected alike are indisciminately shot to pieces in the canyons of Canary Wharf.
A common criticism of the film was that the slender development of its principal characters made empathising with them problematic, but it felt to me that the main character in this film is London itself, which is evoked in a tremendously atmospheric style: familiar yet terrifyingly empty, a vast necropolis resonating with distant gunfire. Here the film is tremendously successful, and taking in the sights is a mesmerising experience.
Ultimately, 28 weeks later is very bleak. There's little in the way of any moral message to it, as everyone ends up dammned, regardless of any nobler motives they may labour under. In spite of the political satire the might aspires to (which is actually more effective than you might expect it to be) this beast is essentially all about the action, at which it performs very well. By the end of it my heart was (to quote Big L) "pumpin' like Reeboks", and I left the cinema swaying on an adrenalin high. It is extremely gory though, and anyone with an aversion to blood might want to steer well clear (the span of a helicoptor's rotor blades clear, in fact).
Some trivia/slight spoiler:
In once scene a huge fireball erupts from the foot tunnel crossing from the Isle of Dogs to Greenwich, and the Cutty Sark is clearly in shot. I saw this on the day that the bits of the ship that they left lying around went up in smoke.. which was kind of freaky.
Also, prior to seeing the film, I saw plenty of 'guerilla' marketing for the film, consisting of stencilled ads directing you to the website www.ragevirus.com. Apparently the ad adency that masterminded this had neglected to actually buy that domain name, so when some happy shopper discovered this and snapped it up, they were obliged to purchase it off them. Fancy that.
It's intense. If you've seen the original, you know what to expect: mobs of beserk inhumans, infected with bloodlust, rampaging through the streets of a post-apocalyptic London; only in this, the second installment of what seems destined to become at least a trilogy, its creators have dialled up the volume to about 15. This is Aliens to 28 Days Later's Alien, replete with marines and an exponentially vaster bodycount. This is a sequel that's been chained to a radiator in a basement, injected with crystal meth and forced to watch shaky handcam footage of war.
After a terrifying opening with Bobby Carlyle and some other fugitives hole up in a cottage, the action switches to London, where the American Military are seeking to repopulate London from the Isle of Dogs, now that the infected have starved to death. To cut to the chase, the disease of the first film has not been eradicated (there is a carrier) and with a fresh outbreak things go from bad, to worse, to extremely bad with extreme rapidity. Quarantine compromised, the jarheads running the show proceed to the zombie equivalent of defcon 1, liquidating everything in their crosshairs, infected or not.
It's an extremely effective film. A nasty cathartic hit, exhilerating and terrifying. There are some barnyard door sized holes in the plot which I could feel the draught from three rows in, but then, this is a genre that thrives on gross errors of judgement; on people going into cellars when you know they shouldn't have. As with most horror films, suspension of disbelief is key.
The political analogies of the film have been written about enough already, and in some ways they are pretty rudimentary, but the hubris of the military and indiscriminate firestorm that ensues seems – bizarrely – believable, as refugees and the infected alike are indisciminately shot to pieces in the canyons of Canary Wharf.
A common criticism of the film was that the slender development of its principal characters made empathising with them problematic, but it felt to me that the main character in this film is London itself, which is evoked in a tremendously atmospheric style: familiar yet terrifyingly empty, a vast necropolis resonating with distant gunfire. Here the film is tremendously successful, and taking in the sights is a mesmerising experience.
Ultimately, 28 weeks later is very bleak. There's little in the way of any moral message to it, as everyone ends up dammned, regardless of any nobler motives they may labour under. In spite of the political satire the might aspires to (which is actually more effective than you might expect it to be) this beast is essentially all about the action, at which it performs very well. By the end of it my heart was (to quote Big L) "pumpin' like Reeboks", and I left the cinema swaying on an adrenalin high. It is extremely gory though, and anyone with an aversion to blood might want to steer well clear (the span of a helicoptor's rotor blades clear, in fact).
Some trivia/slight spoiler:
In once scene a huge fireball erupts from the foot tunnel crossing from the Isle of Dogs to Greenwich, and the Cutty Sark is clearly in shot. I saw this on the day that the bits of the ship that they left lying around went up in smoke.. which was kind of freaky.
Also, prior to seeing the film, I saw plenty of 'guerilla' marketing for the film, consisting of stencilled ads directing you to the website www.ragevirus.com. Apparently the ad adency that masterminded this had neglected to actually buy that domain name, so when some happy shopper discovered this and snapped it up, they were obliged to purchase it off them. Fancy that.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Sick kicks
Fresh out the box.. Oi Polloi Mocc's (with a free pair of Corgi socks). The smell of the leather on these almost knocked me over when I opened it on Saturday morning. Tanned in England the hide is then shipped to the states for assembly, which perhaps accounts for some of the price, but never mind, the summer shoe has arrived.
It's been a quiet weekend. On Saturday morning I went to view a flat, before going for a nose round Camberwell. I stayed in in the evening and watched Pitch Black and The Boys from Brazil, which is a kind of Nazi-based version of The Omen, with Gregory Peck playing the maniacal Doctor Mengeles, masterminding a impressively evil conspiracy.
While half watching this, I also cannibalised one of my old housemates picture frames for a poster by one of my favourite illustrators – Frank Quitely – that I've had knocking around for a while. It's from a comic he did the covers for called Bite Club (which I never read), which depicts a vampyress drinking blood from a milk carton. I don't think it'll be going up in the lounge.
Today's been even quieter.. drawing and listening to music, though I did pop out to get some chorizo from the Portugese deli on Coldharbour lane. Back at work tomorrow, and the booking I was on last week is continuing up to at least Tuesday this week, though it may roll on. Yawn.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Sleepless in Camberwell
I couldn't sleep last night. I thrashed around in my sheets, restlessly turning my pillow to the cool side, and flipping my duvet. Every forty minutes or so I would switch on the light and read another few pages of Cormac McCarthy's 'Cities of The Plain'.
It was impossible. I felt restless and couldn't get comfortable, and even though the linen was clean the bed seemd to itch against my back. At around half three I gave up, and got up, and pulling on some jeans and a hoody, went out for a walk.
Camberwell seemed impossibly quiet. The only other people I could see were two of the guys from Morley's Fried Chicken pulling down the shutters, accompanied by the whoosh of the odd lonely car. It was cold. Birds were tweeting. It felt like I'd got up to go on holiday somewhere.. I hadn't.
I stumbled up Camberwell Church Street, crossing by the green to head up Denmark Hill. Bolu Kebab was open, as was the Golden Grill – slowly rotating pillars of sweating meat being a twenty-four hour commodity. I looked through the windows as I passed. If I'd thought about it, I might have found the the sight of my fellow travellers purchasing chilli-soused grey flesh oddly comforting, but I felt a bit too vacant for that. I stared in at their faces, hollow in the artificial light.
I walked up past the hospital by Ruskin Park, the turned left by the Salvation Army headquarters. I passed a few people. At the end I turned left again, and headed down Grove Lane. Half way down, two guys walking up, slowly, going nowhere. One drifted to the centre of the road as I passed:
"Hey mate, got a minute? come over here yeah?"
I glanced back, without breaking my stride:
"Nah mate I'm going home" I said
And I was. The last I saw of him was staring ambiguously after me in the streetlight, as his friend trudged away beyond him.
I got back in ten minutes later, shucked off my crumpled attire and collapsed into bed. A sleep, or semblance thereof, came after half an hour or so.
It was impossible. I felt restless and couldn't get comfortable, and even though the linen was clean the bed seemd to itch against my back. At around half three I gave up, and got up, and pulling on some jeans and a hoody, went out for a walk.
Camberwell seemed impossibly quiet. The only other people I could see were two of the guys from Morley's Fried Chicken pulling down the shutters, accompanied by the whoosh of the odd lonely car. It was cold. Birds were tweeting. It felt like I'd got up to go on holiday somewhere.. I hadn't.
I stumbled up Camberwell Church Street, crossing by the green to head up Denmark Hill. Bolu Kebab was open, as was the Golden Grill – slowly rotating pillars of sweating meat being a twenty-four hour commodity. I looked through the windows as I passed. If I'd thought about it, I might have found the the sight of my fellow travellers purchasing chilli-soused grey flesh oddly comforting, but I felt a bit too vacant for that. I stared in at their faces, hollow in the artificial light.
I walked up past the hospital by Ruskin Park, the turned left by the Salvation Army headquarters. I passed a few people. At the end I turned left again, and headed down Grove Lane. Half way down, two guys walking up, slowly, going nowhere. One drifted to the centre of the road as I passed:
"Hey mate, got a minute? come over here yeah?"
I glanced back, without breaking my stride:
"Nah mate I'm going home" I said
And I was. The last I saw of him was staring ambiguously after me in the streetlight, as his friend trudged away beyond him.
I got back in ten minutes later, shucked off my crumpled attire and collapsed into bed. A sleep, or semblance thereof, came after half an hour or so.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
It's Bigger Than
I think I'm going to knock these vaguely tedious 'where I got pissed this weekend' type posts on the head, because they're well, vaguely tedious, but for old times sake, here goes.
Last night was the final It's Bigger Than at 93 Feet East, which has been running now for over three years. I went for this final outing as I did for the first night I went to at the beginning of 2005, in jeans and a svelte-assed DAKS jacket, though on that occasion I also had a bag of beat-up disco 12s to rock.
I think they managed to leave on a high note.. it felt like that incarnation of the night was cruising into run-out groove territory anyway, and the people who run that venue sound like twits. The crowd (which is always going to be a bit of a mixture on Brick Lane) seemed now more than ever a rag-tag coalition of plastic party people and badger-haired post-curry beer boys, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but it did seem to have lost some of its spirit.
We sat outside in the courtyard for for a bit (Steven Merchant of Extras fame was sat right behind me) before going into the main room, where I out-popped crouch to a mixture of funk, disco, hip hop, and er, minimal that the guest DJ Dave Tope was laying down. Al popped his head round the corner from the back to let us know it was going off, which upon inspection, it was.
As Ade observed, the big guns were well and truly out tunewise, with the Timo Maas remix of Doom's Night and Super Sharp Shooter calling the faithful to prayer. Even the final tune from Bugsy Malone by Paul Williams got a look in, and everyone knows what a club hit that is.
The crowd was tearing the roof off though, with people dancing on every available surface, and whooping enthusiastically, and for this final chapter of the night (at least at 93 Feet East) they seemed to have reclaimed the spirit of fun which made it such a delight when it was young.
At one o'clock concerned looking security types in black MA1 jackets lumbered over to try and pull the plug, but they let them past the alloted hour, as I'm guessing the big lumps realised they'd have a riot on their hands if they didn't. I departed shortly after, to catch a lift back down south, with a fond farewell glance at the percolating throng behind me.
I guess I'll miss it, but on the other hand, it might force me to seek out pastures new for late night thrills. The quest is on.
Last night was the final It's Bigger Than at 93 Feet East, which has been running now for over three years. I went for this final outing as I did for the first night I went to at the beginning of 2005, in jeans and a svelte-assed DAKS jacket, though on that occasion I also had a bag of beat-up disco 12s to rock.
I think they managed to leave on a high note.. it felt like that incarnation of the night was cruising into run-out groove territory anyway, and the people who run that venue sound like twits. The crowd (which is always going to be a bit of a mixture on Brick Lane) seemed now more than ever a rag-tag coalition of plastic party people and badger-haired post-curry beer boys, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but it did seem to have lost some of its spirit.
We sat outside in the courtyard for for a bit (Steven Merchant of Extras fame was sat right behind me) before going into the main room, where I out-popped crouch to a mixture of funk, disco, hip hop, and er, minimal that the guest DJ Dave Tope was laying down. Al popped his head round the corner from the back to let us know it was going off, which upon inspection, it was.
As Ade observed, the big guns were well and truly out tunewise, with the Timo Maas remix of Doom's Night and Super Sharp Shooter calling the faithful to prayer. Even the final tune from Bugsy Malone by Paul Williams got a look in, and everyone knows what a club hit that is.
The crowd was tearing the roof off though, with people dancing on every available surface, and whooping enthusiastically, and for this final chapter of the night (at least at 93 Feet East) they seemed to have reclaimed the spirit of fun which made it such a delight when it was young.
At one o'clock concerned looking security types in black MA1 jackets lumbered over to try and pull the plug, but they let them past the alloted hour, as I'm guessing the big lumps realised they'd have a riot on their hands if they didn't. I departed shortly after, to catch a lift back down south, with a fond farewell glance at the percolating throng behind me.
I guess I'll miss it, but on the other hand, it might force me to seek out pastures new for late night thrills. The quest is on.
Friday, May 04, 2007
I just saw..
No, not Paris Hilton riding a zebra naked through the fountains of Trafalgar Square (though this is London, and anything is possible). No, What I actually saw was what looked like the worst sandwich ever.. on Tottenham Court Road, and no, not actually on the road but it might have well as been.
It was one of those interchangable pseudo-Italiano sarnic joints hawking focaccia based confections, which are usually a bit suspect anyway, but this one took the proverbial biscuit.
It consisted of:
Ciabatta
Bacon
Chicken Escalope
Brie
and ladelled over the top..
Thai Sweet Chilli Sauce
Urgh.
It was one of those interchangable pseudo-Italiano sarnic joints hawking focaccia based confections, which are usually a bit suspect anyway, but this one took the proverbial biscuit.
It consisted of:
Ciabatta
Bacon
Chicken Escalope
Brie
and ladelled over the top..
Thai Sweet Chilli Sauce
Urgh.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
The Mellotex / Metroplex Conspiracy
..Though I'm not sure quite what the conspiracy might actually entail.. Metroplex being a cult techno label founded by Detroit bleepmeister Juan Atkins, wheras Mellotex is a brand of printer paper widely available in the UK, combining (and here I quote from a downloadable PDF I frisked off the web) "a unique smooth crispness and opacity with excellent print performance."
The internet is of course the first port of call for my own brand of lazy e-journalism. A quick Google of of "Juan Atkins" and "paper" later, and the internet's favourite search engine coughs up an Ebay listing at number two, for an original pressing of Juan's 1985 classic 'No UFOs' under his Model 500 moniker with, notably, SOME LIGHT PAPER SCUFFING.
So maybe that's it. One of the founding fathers of the Detroit techno sound has forged an unlikely alliance with a fully integrated business paper range (produced by a paper manufacturers in Fife, no less) to provide research and development for sleeves that will prove as durable and timeless as the shimmering electro classics he intends them to house.
On the other hand it's half one in the morning, and maybe the logos just look a little similar.. a bit like that Quark/Scottish Arts Council logo fiasco a while back (Yes Scotland again).
So whatever. I'm being silly.. but they do look uncannily similar don't they? (humour me here) and In any event both techno 12s and sheets of crisp white paper are both proper nice to take a stylus to (arf arf) which is something they do have in common at least.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Weekend Parklife
On Saturday I went to view another flat. Depressingly, it was an American style block viewing which the Guardian wrote about the other week, and my Estate Agents seem to have adopted enthusiastically.
The affair took on something of a farcical air, with assorted couples trailing round and popping out of doorways to eye the flat and each other up.
It was such a beautiful day I wasn't really in the mood anyway, to be honest, and after that I wandered over to Brunswick Park where I sat on a bench and sketched. I quite like Brunswich Park. The only thing about it is it's quite small, and at least on the weekends there's always a posse of South London lads playing football, and screaming to be heard over each other's insults and the relentless shaking crash of the football hammering into the fence behind the goal. It gets a bit distracting.
That evening I went over to Ed's and sat on his roof with him and Vic chatting, before going to the Hermit's Cave where it was a sister of a friend's birthday.
Sunday was if anything, even hotter than Saturday, so I went for a wander and to take some photos with my new camera. I went and met up with Ade later, and we went and sat in Ruskin Park talking.
Dropped into the Joiners arms for a pint en route home. Sam rang to say he completed the Paris Marathon in four hours and twelve minutes, though it was eighty degrees, and by the end he resembled a giant salt-lick.
After that I went home and ate a takeaway in front of the TV. Jess was back from St Albans. She's pulled out of the of the offer she put in on a studio flat in Forest Hill, having realised it's much the same size as a rabbit hutch, only far more expensive.
After that I sat up doing a some work, then got to bed one-ish.
I'm not booked in all this week, and part of me is hoping it stays that way, I wouldn't mind a couple of days to sort other stuff out. I just got given some work, but it was a complete non-brief, where an account handler waved a A4 printout with some dimensions on under my nose and said "just do this yeah?". Scrutinising a bit I see that in fact my mission objectives need fleshing out somewhat. So, back to rambling on the internet while she bothers to find out the facts.
The affair took on something of a farcical air, with assorted couples trailing round and popping out of doorways to eye the flat and each other up.
It was such a beautiful day I wasn't really in the mood anyway, to be honest, and after that I wandered over to Brunswick Park where I sat on a bench and sketched. I quite like Brunswich Park. The only thing about it is it's quite small, and at least on the weekends there's always a posse of South London lads playing football, and screaming to be heard over each other's insults and the relentless shaking crash of the football hammering into the fence behind the goal. It gets a bit distracting.
That evening I went over to Ed's and sat on his roof with him and Vic chatting, before going to the Hermit's Cave where it was a sister of a friend's birthday.
Sunday was if anything, even hotter than Saturday, so I went for a wander and to take some photos with my new camera. I went and met up with Ade later, and we went and sat in Ruskin Park talking.
Dropped into the Joiners arms for a pint en route home. Sam rang to say he completed the Paris Marathon in four hours and twelve minutes, though it was eighty degrees, and by the end he resembled a giant salt-lick.
After that I went home and ate a takeaway in front of the TV. Jess was back from St Albans. She's pulled out of the of the offer she put in on a studio flat in Forest Hill, having realised it's much the same size as a rabbit hutch, only far more expensive.
After that I sat up doing a some work, then got to bed one-ish.
I'm not booked in all this week, and part of me is hoping it stays that way, I wouldn't mind a couple of days to sort other stuff out. I just got given some work, but it was a complete non-brief, where an account handler waved a A4 printout with some dimensions on under my nose and said "just do this yeah?". Scrutinising a bit I see that in fact my mission objectives need fleshing out somewhat. So, back to rambling on the internet while she bothers to find out the facts.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Cockroaches
Last night my housemate Jess told me a story involving her mum and dad and some cockroaches. Whilst living abroad her mum owned a small travel alarm clock, whose alarm used to wake her up each morning.
One day it suddenly stopped working, so her dad opened it up to discover a large cockroach enmeshed in its workings. They surmised it must have got in whilst it was a nipper, gaining egress through a tiny hole, and survived by feeding off the grease in the clock, growing until it was too large to escape and its doom was sealed.
We've got a bit of a roach problem in our flat at the minute.. it's highly unpleasant. We're a pretty clean and tidy bunch, but our flat is full of holes and the little horrors seem to have suddenly descended on us from nowhere.
SO we've got the pest control people coming round, which should hopefully sort it out.. Otherwise it'll be another reason to get out of my large, very cheap and cheerful, yet somewhat shabby rented accomodation. I've got another viewing tomorrow anyway.
Pretty dull week really. I'm glad it's almost the weekend. Al's coming down from North London to visit, so it'll be good to see him again.
One day it suddenly stopped working, so her dad opened it up to discover a large cockroach enmeshed in its workings. They surmised it must have got in whilst it was a nipper, gaining egress through a tiny hole, and survived by feeding off the grease in the clock, growing until it was too large to escape and its doom was sealed.
We've got a bit of a roach problem in our flat at the minute.. it's highly unpleasant. We're a pretty clean and tidy bunch, but our flat is full of holes and the little horrors seem to have suddenly descended on us from nowhere.
SO we've got the pest control people coming round, which should hopefully sort it out.. Otherwise it'll be another reason to get out of my large, very cheap and cheerful, yet somewhat shabby rented accomodation. I've got another viewing tomorrow anyway.
Pretty dull week really. I'm glad it's almost the weekend. Al's coming down from North London to visit, so it'll be good to see him again.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Eye love Camo
I went to the camouflage exhibition at the Imperial War Museum yesterday with Jess, which I thoroughly enjoyed, and would heartily recommend.
It's a fairly concise show, but well curated, and gives an overview on the subject from its inception in modern warfare at the beginning of the twentieth century through to to its impact on art and fashion more recently.
The early pioneers of camouflage were artists, and this is evident in the 'dazzle' system of painting warships, which can be seen on the HMS Belfast, currently parked up on the Thames. What had never really ocurred to me was that Dazzle camouflage's aim, rather than seeking to blend the ships into their surroundings (a pretty tall order when all you've got is a bucket of paint) was instead to disrupt outlines and hamper depth perception – making trajectory, distance and speed harder to gauge. This is brilliantly demonstrated in a large oil painting of some dazzle painted ships in convoy, where large zebra like areas of contrasting colour distract from their general 'shippiness', rendering them moody geometric shapes plonked on an iron grey sea. They look incongruous, more than anything.
The influence of vorticism is keenly evident in the dazzle system, and indeed one of their movement—Edward Wadsworth—actually worked for the Royal Navy as a kind of consultant on disruptive pattern. It is ftting that the Vorticists trademark splintered style came to adorn warships, given that the movement as a whole fetishized the trappings of the industrial age. As Cubism sought to reduce a variety of perspectives into a compound view, Dazzle performed a kind of optical fission, fracturing the whole into a mess of shapes that distract from a unified reading. It is remarkably effective, and looking at it I couldn't help but wonder that if Op-Art had happened thirty years earlier, whether we wouldn't be seeing dreadnoughts picked out in Bridget Riley's shimmering mirages.
Aside from the camouflage there is a lot of assorted fascinating marginalia in this exhibition, assorted trivia such as artist's and scientist's notes and sketchbooks. One artifact I found amusing was a photo of the wife of someone involved in camouflage research and development, lying on the ground naked but for some drab olive skin paint and a kind of mossy merkin. She looked almost exactly like the woman off those deodorant ads in the 90s (can't remember what the spray was).
Of course I was really there for the clothing, of which there was lots, and which encompassed the full spectrum from the purely martial through to purely fashion. Given that this thrifty, resourceful art is itself a study in affectation, posture, modes and transitions it was perhaps inevitable that it would ultimately be itself appropriated by fashion for both political and aesthetic reasons (it just occured to me that the Public Enemy t-shirt I wear as I type this has a camouflage motif worked into the background).
In some ways, Camouflage represents the apex of a very successful design credo. Like much army issue clothing, it is hard wearing and hyper-practical, but more than that, it engages in a discourse with the environment, and toys with our hardwired semiotics. It is ancient and subtle, it is devious and romantic.
Looking at the traditional designs on display, it was interesting to note how different nations had evolved similar designs in parallel, while at the same time preserving certain idiosyncracies – presumably so that the gear could simultaneously function as a uniform, and communicate allegiance.
In terms of the fashion stuff, the usual suspects were on patrol, including Stussy and Maharishi. Indeed, I think quite a lot of stuff was on loan from the latter's founder Hardy Blechman, who is credited at the end of the exhibition in an advisory capacity.
So go see it. It's a fun day out, and what's not to like about looking at lots of splotchy clothing. If you're a bit of a camo freak like myself, so much the better, and you might even learn something. For instance: did you know that people who devise and create camouflage are referred to as Camofleurs? I didn't, but all of a sudden my career path has suddenly become clear.. I mean, is that not the fucking coolest job title you've ever heard? those tedious conversations in pubs would never be the same again:
"So what do you do?"
"oh me? I'm a CAMOFLEUR. You get that? CAMOFLEUR"
I couldn't be sure, but I bet camofleurs get the girls..
Thursday, April 05, 2007
'FRAM'
Now me and the interweb are friends electric, I almost don't know how
I survived without email, but one thing that has always wound me up
ever since I got a crappy Hotmail account back in 1999 or whenever it
was, are annoying round-robin type messages that people infect
everyone on their address list with like a giant web bound sneeze.
They say there's no cure for the common cold, and the same might be
said of this 'friendly' Spam or FRAM (I just made that up) which still rocks up in my inbox to this day, despite my having excommunicated even casual acquaintances for less.
The first, most obvious—and slightly less noxious—form this takes is:
'the funny forwarded email', which, based my personal knowledge, is a fixture of slow Friday afternoons in offices all over. This could consist of an 'amusing picture' – a jpeg of a wet cat with
the legend 'where's my coffee' for instance; or a joke, littered with
exclamation marks to remind you that this is a joke that considers itself funny.
Rest assured though, whatever form it takes it will have no style, and
practically no substance. Annoying maybe, but relatively inoffensive,
the experience is certainly no worse than being cornered and talked at
by a loud bore in a Simpsons waistcoat.
But vastly, exponentially worse than these, are those emails that find
their way to you, and actually function to perpetuate themselves – by inviting you to forward and spawn them anew.
Typically they take the form of a list or petition, which after
pleading it's case, urge you yourself to become a signatory, before
infecting your friends. There are a few main types, which I'll
briefly run through, so you can diagnose the symptoms early.
1. The Freebie
This has kind of died off somewhat recently, mostly because people are
getting hep to it, but the survivor still pings round cyberspace like a dodo in Manhattan. This basically consists of an offer, usually centred around a rich, remote, and suddenly,
unexpectedly eccentric Billionaire such as Bill Gates, or a
corporation (Microsoft will do nicely here) who are willing to give
away loads of free stuff.. if (sigh) you help them expand their
database. Here's an example:
"(insert corporation here) are looking to expand their client database, and to do this are offering free (insert expensive fetish here) to anyone will help them. Simply forward this to ten of your friends and within one month (insert corporation here) will contact you for details of how to receive your free (insert expensive fetish here)"
Some of them even have a little bit proclaiming its authenticity:
"Guys this is true i didnt believe at first but my aunt works for (insert corporation here) and she told me its true they really are doing it and I did it and now ive got (insert expensive fetish here) coming out my ass"
I've seen it with loads of things. Sony Ericcson handsets, the
aforementioned software giant, even Champagne house Pieper &
Heidseck, were, unaccountably, willing to part with crates of the good stuff, for those all important email addresses, so essential to the continued prosperity of luxury super-brands.
There are a few glaringly obvious problems with the logic behind this,
which I'm sure you could fathom out but I'll bore you with anyway.
A: I've heard of companies selling customer lists and information to each other.. and I guess this is fairly standard practice.. which implies that this information does have some kind of value. But that was surely for direct mail. What's an email worth? Not a right lot, and my spam filter seems to be pretty good at keeping out unsolicited crap (though the odd bit hawking Viagra does manage to slip beneath the radar using random bits of text spliced together into weird nonsense poems that are oddly compelling to read). No. I firmly suspect that an email address isn't worth all that much, and certainly not a top of the range mobile, which neatly segues into point..
B: Namely, of what earthly value is an customer's email address as a marketing tool if you're just going to give them what you're trying to sell them, duh..
Finally and most obviously..
C: The so called 'tracking' of these circulars, as they do the conga round cyberspace. Now I ain't exactly what you'd call a 'web guru' (I got about two centimetres into a doorstop book on HTML) and correct me if I'm wrong, but there is absolutely nothing in a bog-standard email that will allow a third party to track it, and if corporations did have the ability to stare into people's inboxes like the eye-of-Sauron (endlessly scouring the internet for the 'one client database to bind them all') I reiterate again.. why would they want to pay you (or I) for it, braniac.
What irritates me most about getting forwarded this crap of course, is that they are occassionally sent to me by acquaintances, who are, by and large, a pretty astute bunch of people. But the minute people see 'Free', baser, more covetous drives kick into motion, and they hit send anyway.
Which is sort of fair enough, as it costs you nothing to do, but on the evidence presented thus far, I think it's fair to say it never works.
2. The Happy Clapper
This is basically a hippy-dippy email that sounds like it was written by someone cross-eyed who owns whale song CD's and really likes 'crafts'. It'll probably start with something along the lines of:
"If you're feeling down at the minute, then just take a moment to remember..."
And then descends into a morass of pseudo-philosophical meta-guff. It might make some relatively valid points regarding relative prosperity etc. which could probably be paraphrased to "cheer up you miserable git" without resorting to the limp spirituality it dangles in front of you like a dreamcatcher.
And of course, when you reach the bottom, they exhort you to forward it on to your friends, to 'spread the love'.. Which is fine.. but half the time it contains some vague promise of imminent good fortune if you continue the chain. One example I saw even promising rewards on a kind of commission basis, a good luck bonus package directly liked to performance (performance being how many other saps you send this to). This of course steers the previously bucolic tone of the message into altogether darker darker waters, for having reassured you that actually, things aint all that bad, it then asks: "but do you feel lucky, punk?". Can you afford to turn down the rich rewards on offer here? Actually, yoghurt-weaver (or whoever penned this) yes I can. Now go play in the road.
3. The Charity Blackmail
Now this is probably the worst of the bunch. Wheras the 'Happy Clapper' uses superstition as the fulcrum of its call to action, the 'Charity Blackmail' tries to get under the bonnet of your concscience to engineer its proliferation. Basically this will be a circular, email, petition, whatever, that puports to be for a charitable cause. I say puports because I have a hard time believing a reputable charity would waste its time misrepresenting itself like this. Charities generally rely upon the receptivity, generosity and goodwill of would be donators, which might be compromised by doing a Sharon Osbourne and posting them these digital turds.
The premise of one I received years back was supposedly from a mother and father whose child was suffering from some terminal illness. Apparently a corporation (again, rich and eccentric) was offering to sponsor a chain email, wherein every 10 or so signatories when garner the cause a further hundred bucks or so.
There was a stock library photo of a tiny baby with, somewhat ingongruously, a blue ribbon wrapped around it—this presumably to vibrate the heartstrings—though speared on a stork's beak might have been more fitting, given the piece's morbid quality.
Apart from the fact that the whole thing seemed as hooky as Louis Vuitton gear at the Elephant and Castle Market, the fact that its opening gambit was:
"If you don't read and just delete this email then you have no heart"
Prejudiced me against it from the get-go. If I'd had a gun on me then I'd have whipped it out and blasted the screen to a smoking wreck.. instead I consigned the message to the trash then emptied that.
If you want someone to act upon a moral principle, then calling into question their moral certitude as an initial premise is, at least as far as I'm questioned, not a good way to go about it. This did not so much prick my conscience as stab it, and it in fact rather made me feel like ringing up George W and going and running over some gay baby seals in a Hummer*.
Even then I did have some vague doubt as to the authenticity of the thing, but no, two years later I saw a slightly different version of the same thing, only it had mutated slightly (or evolved, who knows). The same stock image, but a different sob story.
I generally delete anything like this on sight, but when one popped into my inbox the other I flicked through it out of curiosity. It was, allegedly and here I quote, a: "petition for drink driving" (huh?)
It consisted of a pretty awful bit of poetry that might have been written by a Vogon it was so terrifyingly bad, and set in alternating lines of lurid green and purple type to boot. It inevitably concluded with:
"If you receive this petition and do nothing but delete it, your selfishness knows no bounds."
And I wouldn't have expected anything less.
Wierdly enough though, it had an actual address on it, and looking on the internet there is actually a charity of the same name.. but at the same time, nowhere in the email is there contained any hint of what the petition was supposedly intended to achieve. Is it simply signalling moral opposition to the principle of drink driving? or some grander form of magic? perhaps if enough people sign it the concensus of mankind's collective unconscious will turn the hinges of the world and cause drink driving to simply cease to exist.
Whatever. Another hoax I suspect. But it does beg the question.. who creates these things anyway? and why exactly?
What I do find oddly creepy them is that people do actually breed them to some extent. When writing them their creator is essentially devising a formula, that when fed into the internet to flock about, will either prosper and swell, or perish alone in some binary cul-de-sac. Some will be more more successful presumably, some less so. When one of these things pops up in your inbox it is arguing for its life, and by extension pleading for the lives of its children, and children's children.. Which is why so many of them set the moral fighteners on you as an opening salvo. "Feed me" they whisper "or else".
One thing they can't do is fess up and admit to being junk, or else they are so much roadkill on the information super-highway. In "The Sirens of Mars", the prescient Phillip K Dick imagined a future earth where one of the embodiments of commericialism are mobile gnat-sized advertisements that can fly anywhere (your flat, car etc) to hide and broadcast their banal message at you like a broken record. What is hugely amusing is that everyone detests them, and takes great pleasure in swatting them down.
In much the same way, when I encounter one of these messages quivering in my gmail inbox, accusing me of selfishness in shrill hysterical tones, I take great delight in crushing them beneath my heel as a form of pest control.
What is of course slightly odd is that unlike scams (lotteries you were never aware you'd entered in Argentina, African businesses desirous of overseas bank accounts, advertising etc.) they don't seem seem to owe their existence to any immediately obvious mode of fraud (unless it be far more subtle than I can see). There doesn't seem to be any real reason for these things existence.. they just, well, are.
I wonder if there's a 'scene' which people who create these little informational anomolies associate themselves with. A hardore group of data farmers whose principal shibboleth is scripting the dna of these curious little viruses. Do they have competitions? shows? A digital Crufts where their creations are paraded around for approval? I think I would actually be quite pleased if that was the case, though sadly, I doubt it.
And who are the chefs, responsible for all these recipes of spam? I suspect it's just kids, or very, very bored, very annoying people, of whom there have been no shortage of since time immemorial. It is of course this is just a modern incarnation of the 'Chain Letter', which like most things has moved online now.
But, friends, I'm going to take a stand here, and if anyone's thinking of forwarding me any of this dreck, please be aware the Eyechild aint go no love for no junk email, and I pity the fool that runs up in my inbox, because it won't be leaving again.
*I'm JOKING (some of my best friends are seals).
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Lunchtime Nightmare..
I just hiked down Wardour Street onto (cough) Winnet Street, to discover that Il Panino has shut up shop. Anyone who's a regular reader of this blog might know that I rate(d) this little cafe as hands-down the best place to get a sandwich in central London, if not the solar system.
There was a note in the window from Antonio, the proprietor, apologising for any of the times they might have been in a bad mood, and a contact number should anyone want to get in touch. No clues as to why they've closed, but I bet I could hazard a few, and at least one of them will also be the title of a Pet Shop Boys song.
I wrote a few words about it back in September 2005, and since then it's remained true to form, serving excellent food that was remarkably good value. Indeed, the only reason I didn't eat there more was that one of their ciabatta specials was, sometimes, almost too much food to eat; and besides, eating elsewhere only served to drive home how exceptionally good they were. I never strayed for too long.
This is yet another nail in the coffin for London independents. For whilst there are other sandwich shops, that was the best. Do you hear me people? THE BEST SANDWICH SHOP IN SOHO HAS JUST CLOSED. GONE. LEFT THE BUILDING. God that's depressing. Soho is now officially around 5% to 7% worse between the hours of 1pm and 2pm, (though I'm not sure outside of that slot).
Still, since Pret-a-Manger is gradually tying a noose round the area there'll be no problems getting a sandwich, so long as it's one of about five and you you don't mind at least some of your money paying for Ronald McDonald's clownfood.
So what in Soho am I going to do for lunch now? The quest begins to fill the Il Panino sized hole in my lunchtimes.. and a large hole it is too. Arrivadechi Il Panino.
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