Back in SE5

Well it was a good break. Nice to see Manchester and catch up with a bunch of people I've not seen in a hot minute,

Having got into town on Friday, I went to get my hair cut by the legend that is Jimmy at City Barbers on Newton Street. He's trying to kick the cigarettes, though twice nipped out for a couple of cheeky drags. After that, I went for a wander and bumped into Vina on Tib Street, on her way home from work. After that I went to meet Peed at the Picadilly, which is much less grimey than it was as 'The Goose'. Vic popped in too, briefly, before we left and I went to meet Simon in Trof bar (terrible name).

I crashed at Peed's that night, and on Saturday did the usual sweep of Charity shops and Mr Sifter's place in Burnage. From here I roamed down to Zero records in on Barlowmore road, which I used to go to a fair bit when I lived up there.

It was usually fairly rubbish to be honest, usually because they had 'zero' records worth buying, and I'd usually come away empty handed, having browsed racks of cheap bottom-of-the-barrel secondhand vinyl that wasn't going anywhere fast. Now however, it has a really decent selection of CDs, along with some vintage Avant Garde Polish film posters, which aremuch better than I'm probably making them sound.

The bookshop out the back seemed to have a lot more stock. Ever since I saw the Alan Fletcher exhibition at the Design Museum in Shad Thames, I'm always on the lookout for a copy of their book 'Graphic Design: Visual Comparisons' which dates from 1962 and was something of a classic, though I'm not holding out too much hope of actually finding a decent copy.

I asked the old boy who ran it if there was a graphic design section, and he pointed me toward a shelf stocked with general books on art, before remembering a box of books on print someone had brought in a couple of weeks previously, and guiding me to them.

There was some good stuff, some of it from the sixties, and all in good nick at bargain prices. I got two books on the typographer Jan Tsichold, a couple on the history of type, and other assorted odds and ends, amongst them a Mouldtype specimen book, which is a handsome thing in itself, being deep and narrow in format and backed in blue linen. It's got quite a few classic faces in there at different point sizes, which might be quite useful as a reference tool. I pretty much cleared them out of that particular seam of gold – though they were a bugger to carry.

That afternoon I walked past my old flat, and saw that someone had hung an 'England' flag in one of the bedroom windows. It was one of those cretinous flags where the name of the country is actually emblazoned across it as an aide memoire, and I have to say: anyone who needs to be reminded what their national flag looks like can't love it that much.
I suppose I'm all far a bit of national pride, but broadcasting it like this is pretty unimaginative. I remember being on holiday in Corfu the other year and groaning inwardly at the sight of grade one tonsured lads draping similar banners everywhere like a conquering sunburnt army. Fe why lads? Why the need to demarcate territory when you're a guest in someone elses country? That said, I don't think the Greeks cared that much. As long as everyone paid up they were all smiles.

Anyway. Saturday evening I went to Chorlton and caught up with Gabriel, Fran, Ben, Dan, Emma, Crenan and Jo whose birthday it was on the Saturday. I also popped into Bar 480, where Ben DJs on the Saturday to say Hi, before heading to town to The Attic where Vic was DJing (I know quite a few DJs). Returned home to the welcome embrace of my brother's couch at around three, after scarfing a toasted bagel with vegemite.

I returned home today on the train. I was in first class too, which was nice. It's back to the grind tomorrow, in Soho. I must say, in terms of location, I'm happiest there. It's got everything: vice and a Marks and Spencers. What more could an Englishman want?

Fairy Cow

Drove up into the hills near where my mum and dad live today, to look at the Stone Circle of Mitchell's Fold. Bronze Age in origin, it has a more recent legend that a good fairy once grazed her cow here, which doled out milk to the hungry in (adopts movie trailer guy's voice) "a time of great famine". This was strictly rationed out however at the rate of one bucket o' fairy milk per person (the period is unclear but given that that'd last me a month it seems like quite a lot).

This arrangement was working out fine, but someone's always got to fucking ruin it for everyone else, and the evil witch Mitchell snuck up and started milking the cow into a sieve. The fairy cow clocked what was going on, shimmered out of existence and turned the witch into a lump of stone, which the villagers – presumably quite miffed about the loss of their free milk ticket – surrounded with a circle of other rocks, to ensure she never again escaped (she's a rock now guys, relax).

It was nice. The surrounding hills were shrouded in mist, it was wet and slightly windy. The ground underfoot was spongey with moss. Other than than my mum and dads' car and our respective mobile phones, the most technologically advanced artefact in the immediate vicinity was a cattle grid, steeped in muddy water. It was a landscape weirdly unpunctuated by technology.

Living in London is something of a full frontal sensory assault from the minute you step out of your front door, and I suspect a good part of my waking mind is occupied screening and filtering this barrage of media into some kind of rational order.

No such problem here, in a landscape almost completely devoid of branding apart from a lonely National Trust logo on a bit of rock. Everything seemed wierdly undifferentiated and peaceful. I kept looking around for 'cool stuff', perhaps expecting to see a critically acclaimed new rave compilation leaning against an enterprising bit of rock, but no, nothing.

After that, we drove down into Welshpool. I wandered up the high street and looked in a couple of charity shops. The records therein were the usual suspects, of the order of James Last LPs and the popular 'Mrs Mills' compilations of the seventies. I didn't buy anything.

This evening went for a bite to eat at the local, The Sun, which is two miles up the road. It was very nice. I had a Wild Boar Steak. There was a three legged dog running round, though I don't think this was in any way linked with the food.

Getting the train to Manchester tomorrow, at mid-dayish. Yawn. Off to bed now.

Wales, Henz uv Deth

I'm at my mum and dad's in Wales. It's very rural.

There's fields nearby, full of lambs gamboling around, a dirty dozen or so cows in a corrugated tin shed, the ususal array of evolution-defyingly unintelligent pheasants (strutting calmly into the road like targets in a practise range) plus a new addition to the local agricultural portfolio: a large hen house out the back.

Ah hens. Even allowing for Colonel Saunders and Chicken Cottage, the image that usually springs to mind when I think of hens in the countryside is of plump satisfied chooks ambling round pecking at seed in an arcadian utopia: a benign avian sisterhood if you will.

But after an inspection today I can report.. it's nothing like that at all, in fact: it's like Prisoner Cell Block H up in there.

Which is not to say they're not well looked after. My mum isn't Bernard Matthews (obviously) and it's quite a nice hen house (I guess) but these sisters are doing it to themselves, with various of the inmates sporting a variety of nasty-looking peckwounds, and I can tell you with some certainty having viewed the injured: "These beaks weren't made for walking".

I suppose this is the origing of the phrase 'pecking order', and 'Top Dog' of this cell block when the lights go out is the slightly sinister Mrs Black, a terrifying matronly bird with dark plumage, who metes out her own violent form of authority as savagely as the bosun of a 17th century naval frigate might, if they were a hen.

As the other hens sport ever more painful looking beak marks and diminish in stature, the maniacal Mrs Black prospers inversely, and walks with an ever more pronounced swagger. In ten years she'll probably be ripping up flagstones and holding tanks at bay in Parliament Square. You watch and see.

Anyway. There isn't much to do here apart from walk around, breathe in the air, and blog about hens. I'm in the final stretch of an Ian M Banks novel which I just want to finish now. I sometimes find myself really craving a dirty fix of science fiction, only to be distinctly underwhelmed when I actually set about reading it. This is no exception. It's got some neat ideas in there, but the characterisation is a bit bland and for a thriller, it's actually quite unexciting. That said, I've enjoyed others of his books much more.

Not sure what I'm up to tomorrow, though the weather here is much warmer than I expected, so perhaps a walk, followed by some crate digging in the charity shops of Welshpool.

Tuesday, Pens, Black Narcissus.

I've just got back in from Ed's, having watched Black Narcissus: a 1947 film shot in glorious super-saturated technicolour, about a convent of nuns in the Himalayas (though do bear with me on this one). Watching things like this always gives me a warm nostalgic thrill, despite it actually being quite dark in places. It was all filmed on set at Pinewood (Ed tells me) though it is very well done, and some of the painted backdrops are stunningly effective – one trompe-l'œil in particular creating the illusion of an incredibly vertiginous drop down a mountainside. The lighting is incredibly atmospheric too, making it suitably dramatic and theatrical, wheras it might overwise have felt flat and stagey.

I went and talked pens with a guy in the graphics shop on Camberwell New Road today. I got a couple of Pentel 'Fountains', as I like the variance in stroke you can achieve by applying different pressure. He was right in pointing out however, that the nibs do blunt somewhat quickly, so I may invest in a more traditional dip pen with a stylus and seperate nib. At one point he whipped forth a calligraphic number from his pocket to demonstrate its stroke, and I observed a large ink stain blossoming on the left hand side of his shirt – the sign of a true pen fanatic.

I'm off to Wales tomorrow, and thence to Manchester on Friday. Annoyingly, the two connecting trains heading north cost less than my returning one on Sunday. Logic dictates that this is the busier line, so I assume it's a moneyspinner on Virgin's part.

Really looking forward to a change of scene for the rest of the week, though doubtless it'll be colder—and wetter—than Camberwell could ever hope to be (in both Wales and Manchester).

Rang Vic yesterday, but couldn't get through. Peed informs me however that she was at a Northern Soul weekender in Prestatyn, so doubtless the two are connected. In any event, I hope to catch up with her and various other people.

Hustled

I went and saw a couple more flats yesterday. The second one was quite nice.

After that I went for a walk up the Walworth Road. About half way along it I spied a ten pound note skittering along the road. Without breaking my stride I stooped and scooped it up. Seconds later I was joined by a slightly lupine rudeboy wheeling alondside me on his bmx.

"E ya blud you not gonna give man is money back?"

He said, his voice a cocktail of indignation and threat.

"Sorry?"

I queried.

"Man up dere just dropped it innit"

He said gestuing at a old man up ahead. *fine* I thought, though I could already see where this was going. I quickened my pace and walked abreast of the man in question; a black gentleman in his sixties.

"Sorry mate, this guy says you dropped this" I said showing him the tenner.

"No it's not mine" he said, in a soft West Indian accent.

"Yeah it is you dropped it innit"

Said the lost property homeboy staring over at me accusatively.

"You lads are very honest I must say" Said the man (no, I'm honest I thought, this hoodrat is just pissed I got to the Ayrton Senna before him).

"Let me have a look" he said, taking the then pound note from my hand and turning it ruminatively. "No, it's not mine" he eventually concluded, making to hand it back.

"Safe, yeah" hissed the rudeboy, before sharply slapping it out of his hand and peddling furiously furiously pff in the direction of The Elephant (the tube, not an actual elephant).

I sighed, and patted the old man on the shoulder, which was a sort of gesture of mutual commiseration. "Take it easy mate" I said, before turning into a shop, though I might as well have said "We both lost out there", and honestly, I would have far preferred he got it. Rudeboys eh? Still, can't knock the hustle I suppose.

I went out last night with Sam. Had a pizza at the "Mozzarella Y Pomodoro" by the green, which was passable, but not as good as those of the late BRB, which in its new incarnation as The Grove resembles an unpopular stand at the Ideal Homes exhibition, with lots of shiney slightly naff furniture.

After that went to The Montague Arms in New Cross which is also full of tat, though more in the order of stuffed zebra head peering from the walls. There was a cabaret act on playing covers on synths. It was alright. After that went back to Penny's flat and drank red wine. Stumbled home two-ish? not sure.

Awoke today in the clammy grip of the hangover from hell, paralysed with self loathing. Didn't really feel like going out last night and I wish I'd trusted my insticts on that. Why do I put myself through the mill like this. Slouched around drinking coffee and staring out the window at plastic bags gusting past in the wind. I looked in the mirror before and Marilyn Manson stared back: my hair looks like someone has poured a crow's wing over my head, and I have bags under my eyes you could comfortably park a Renault Espapce in.

Right at the minute I feel like a sort of giant perambulating sigh. To use a flimsy analogy I sometimes wish my life was like an Etch a Sketch I could give a brisk shake and rack the balls back up on the life I've been scribbling over.

So here I find myself, suspended in self pity writing a blog post so emo it'll hopefully make Coldplay put down their instruments. I'm listening to a playlist of grey New York rain-raps and contemplating what to do with myself. I really feel like getting out of London so might do that later this week. In the meantime, who knows. Something productive hopefully.

Friday

It was Allez Allez's final Shindig at Catch last night, so after meeting up with Ade at the Grafton Arms near Goodge Street, we headed up there. The Grafton Arms is apparently something of an 'advertising pub' (much like the Old Coffee House on Beak Street) and this was bourne out by a conversation I overheard on the stairs to the roof terrace, where a girl was saying "...see myself more as an ideas person than a designer".

I'm very happy for you, I thought as I continued roofwards. Ade was already there with one of his old colleagues – the near legendary 'Techno Phil' who likes (wait for it) techno. One of his co-workers was there, Allie, who seemed really nice, and actually used to work at the place I've been at this week. Afterwards me and Ade trekked to Euston, and caught the tube to Old Street. We spotted a poster within our carriage that seemed to suggest that Teletext had a website. Huh? et tu Teletext? I suppose it was inevitable really.

We met up with Rachel near the 333, and went for a swift bite to eat at Miso, which was perfectly decent if not mindblowing, before heading over to Catch.

The night was busy, which was good, as it moved out on a high note. There were Allez Allez badges eveywhere, and I pinched a couple – one for my hoody and one for my Rizla packet it now adorns.

The music was of the usual high standard, though it did get a bit, dare I say it, Nu-Rave in bits* or at least what I suspect the term refers to.. lots of motifs cribbed from older dance records and spliced together with wide-eyed indie abandon. It seemed all quite giddy and unrelenting, with lots of build-ups and hoover sounds. There were some interesting ideas in there, but it seemed to lack drama to me. Everone else seemed to love it though, so I'll get my pipe and slippers.

My housemate Cecila actually accused me of 'being Nu Rave' the other week, because I was wearing a Modular records t-shirt. Nay love, I'm old rave me (though not that old rave; not grooverider tape packs old).

Felt hungover today. Skulked into work slurping a huge coffee and leaving flakes of breakfast pastry in my wake. Was clicking around in Photoshop all morning. I'm not such a fan of doing fiddly layout jobs in Photoshop but there you are. Wandered round Soho in the sun at lunch, and went and got some Sushi from Itsu, so as to feel a bit more virtuous about the things I'm currently ingesting. Bumped into Kay wandering down Wardour street, skiving off work apparently and who can blame her.

The rest of the afternoon was pretty straightforward and I was out of there for quarter to seven. Jumped on the 12 back to the Well and got myself some duck and pancakes from Silver Lake. The lovely lady who cooks there, Sue chucked in some banana fritters for dessert, which were delicious: crunchy golden and caramelised on the outside, soft and fluffy on the interior.

Haven't done much this evening. Watched a programme which featured newsreader Moira Stuart in locations as varied as Africa, the West Indies and Hull in a programme about the slave trade, which was largely an attempt to asess the impact had by celebrated abolitionist William Wilberforce ("The Liberator") on its demise. That was quite interesting. Then watched some of comic relief, which was actually pretty funny.

I'm looking at some flats tomorrow. Other than that, not sure.

*not in Steve ot Deven Mile's sets, mind.

A Glorious Day

And it was a glorious day. Woke up, opened my window, stared out across London. A crisp blue sky; the London Eye glinting in the distance. Bliss.

That said, it is all slightly unseasonal. The first properly sunny day in 2005 I remember being before the Good Friday in April, when I skipped out of work at M&C Saatchi to be confronted by a strangely Arcadian Soho, shining in the sun like childhood. They say Christmas comes earlier every year and I guess that's true of Spring now, too. Shame. There are some good things to be said about winter, mind: Coats and fires.. yeah, that's about it. Oh and snow. Though it was only one day this year, and pretty thin on the ground it was too. Part of me tells me this can't be good; the other half really wants to wear sunglasses.

Went and met Will on the embankment outside the NFT and talked for a while, while the world went by and bought overpriced paperbacks from the trestle tables under the bridge. Headed off at half six home to meet Sam, on a mission down from the East End. We went for food at The refurbished Sun and Doves. We were in the mood for some stodge, so initially we both ordered the Steak and Ale pie, but there were no chips! so I got the fishcakes instead, which it must be said, were excellent. After that we jumped on the 345 to Brixton, and thence to the Ritzy, where under Sam's auspices, I snuck in on guestlist.

I've never been to the 'Carling' Brixton Academy, though it reminds me a little of the Apollo in Manchester. Which used to be the 'Labatts' Apollo, and then (whoa) was the 'Carling' Apollo for a while, apparently. A quick Google for "Manchester Apollo" actually yielded the Carling website as its top hit, though I did find this hilarious quote on the page itself:

"Carling are no longer title sponsors of the Manchester Apollo - but you can still enjoy an Ice cold Carling - however if you have any queries with this venue please contact them direct."

What, let me get this straight, I can still buy a Carling at the Manchester Apollo, despite it no longer being the 'Carling' Manchester Apollo? Well that's a relief. I might still go again, sometime, safe in the knowledge I can 'Belong'. Twats.

(Anyway)

The Academy is an amazing building. Huge and cavernous with a fancy castle bit around the stage, you could have filmed Lord of The Rings in there, or at least the Mines of Moria segment anyway (and probably got some of the crowd as extras, now I come to think about it). Ladytron were on first, who I've seen before at the Futuresonic Festival in Manchester in 2002 alongside Bent and some ebay friendly electronic acts from the Skam label. Ladytron are a kind of foxy Kraftwerk, fronted* as they are by three girls with crisp black skirt/shirt combos, and hair so sharp it probably cuts scissors. And they play keyboards and guitars and sing in an intonal 'We Are The Machiiines' style. Fuck. It's like a Robert Palmer video gone right.

After that, we trotted up to the 'VIP' area where Sam had some business to take care of (which isn't a euphemism for a gangland hit should you be wondering). The view from up there was pretty impressive, commanding as it did a panoramic view of the gig. Nine Inch Nails were on next, so while Sam talked shop I looked out over the proceedings through one of a set of Archways enclosed by plexiglass. This made the sound oddly muted.. and staring out across the crowds below and the incandescent light show it felt like I was witnessing a distant nuclear war from the safety of a bunker (and I guess a bunker would be the ultimate 'VIP' area, in the event on an actual nuclear war ocurring).

After Sam had finished up we headed down again to the gig proper to check it out. It has to be said, I know very little of Nine Inch Nails apart from 'The Downward Spiral', but they were really impressive. A really heavy percussive sound, underpinned with satisfyingly crunchy industrial effects and overlaid with screeching guitars. And that Reznor bloke singing. Hung around for the faintly blasphemous electronic squawk of 'Closer to God' and then headed on out. Hopped on the 345 to Camberwell while Sam caught the tube to Liverpool Street (I'm guessing).

It's now Monday morning. My booking for this week collapsed late Friday afternoon like climate talks in 2000, leaving me free to read Ian M Banks before bed. It's a hard knock life. Ho hum.

*I say fronted, because it It must be noted, 50% of Ladytron are male. And a fine job they did too.

Inland Empire

I just went and saw Inland Empire by David Lynch, which was weird with a capital Y. I won't try to synopsise it fully, (practically impossible, really) though it starts off quite odd, before moving into a vaguely comprehensible narrative with Laura Dern playing an actress returning to the screen, as filming starts on a project overseen by a director acted by Jeremy Irons. This lasts for about half an hour. Then it gets really bizarre. And stays that way. For the next two and a half hours.

Overall the film is mesmerising: by turns both terrifying and hilarious, though at the two and a half hour mark I was flagging somewhat. I (and I suspect not a few of the audience) kept trying to make some sense of what was going on, as there are the outlines of several linked storylines, to be glimpsed dimly through the doors of Lynch's stream of conciousness. Doors feature heavily in the film as a kind of figurative shorthand for the films dense intertextuality, which is at the same time very obtuse. I could never quite work out who the all the people were in the adjacent plotlines, and though more viewings might be edifying, I'm not sure it really matters.

Its texture is fascinating too, as it all seems to have been shot on digital, complete with all the format's coarseness. Without the sumptuos gloss of film, it seems curiosly predestined for somewhere else other than a cinema, and quite aside from its tropes of perspective looks oddly reminiscent of a video installation in bits.

In fact, one thing it really reminded me of in bits was Chris Cunningham's work - especially in one scene where a character's face morphs into a nightmare composite of Laura Dern's, replete with trails of blood/smoke oozing from its lips. The oppressive heavily ambient soundtrack seems to further qualify this, as it was very reminiscent I thought of Ambient Works 2 era Aphex Twin (and I did check to see if it wasn't on the end credits).

In fact, the only fault I could really find with the soundtrack was at the end where he used that Nina Simone tune that's been ransacked recently for that annoying Renault Clio ad, featuring the 'Nicole and Papa' of the naughties: "Fwance" girl and "Britain" lad (himself number seven in Charlie Brooker's Ten Biggest Cocks in Advertising).

When it had finally finished, we trooped out the Ritzy in Brixton where we'd gone to see it, feeling somewhat dazed by the ordeal. We set off our seperate ways. Brixton was being as weird and on-top as it usually is at that time of night: a couple of skunk dealers getting busted outside McDonalds, a couple of guys rolling round in the street half fighting half not. I caught the first 35 I could home.

While walking along Camberwell Church Street I passed three 'Street Pastors', who go around talking to the wayward youth in an attempt in 'increase the peace'. Apparently a lot of West Indian and African kids have a 'cultural respect' for religious leaders, so are less likely to go busting off shots while they're around. I probably read that in the Guardian though so it's anyone's guess really.

It did remind me however of a film we were ocassionally plonked in front on the last day of term at school, called "The Cross and the Switchblade" which is basically about the church attempting to reach disaffected youth on the mean streets of 1970s New York. It got mocked mercilessly by all and sundry, but in later years I encountered a copy of the soundtrack in Manchester's Vinyl Exchange, which had it labelled as a rare obscurity and priced accordingly. Apparently it's a bit of a crate diggers trophy piece, featuring rare funk breaks. Fancy that.

Not sure what I'm up to tomorrow. Was umming and ahing about a walk in the countryside with Ed and Vic, but I'm going to try and get some other bits done.

Drinking and thinking

Last night I went round Vicki's house, and she cooked tea for me and Ed - a pumpkin risotto. A brave choice I thought, though it was delicious: sweet, sticky, moreish winter stodge (though of course March seems to have got bored of Winter and advanced straight to Spring).

Her housemate Claire was seeking some help touching up a headshot of her in Photoshop, but as her iBook only had a trackpad and no mouse, it was something of a challenge to finesse anything... I touched out some blemishes and showed her how curves and levels could achieve a more dramatic contrast in tone - I wasn't sure what else I could demonstrate in a five minute crash course.

After that we trundled down to The Hermits Cave (there's no apostrophe in the sign, by the way) where we had one of those rambling, slightly drunken debates about life in general I sometimes find myself locked into on a week night.

I don't think we really set the world to rights, though as a result, something did occur to me during one exchange about cohabiting with other people. As I've said before, living with others can be hard work and I've always considered myself a fairly easy going person, but henceforth I think when deciding whether to live with someone, I'm going to make damn sure I really want to live with them.

If you actually enjoy someone's company, flatsharing is a relative breeze, and you don't really sweat the small stuff so much. I moan about cleanliness and noise, but really, I'll forgive a multitude of sins if I have affection for someone..

Wheras if you don't.. if there's even the slightest hint of doubt about sharing your personal space, you tend to chalk up even the most minor transgressions ("You didn't do the recycling!") on a mental score card, which will, if you're uncareful, ultimately feed resentment. Which is sort of unfair, I suppose (In any event, all my housemates are great, by and large – end caveat).

Anyway.. not exactly a moment of blinding insight, but an interesting reflection I thought. I'm like a modern day Plato or something, and he liked his caves too.

We were a bit drunk though.. the barometer of my inebriation being when I wobbled the table mid gesture and an empty Leffe glass danced off the edge and smashed to bits on the ground. All eyes on us. Oh dear.

I woke up today feeling tired and fuzzy. It took ages to get to where I was working on Hanway Street, possibly because I caught a 42 (which never seems that fleet of foot at rush hour). It was a quietish day and the work was straitforward enough, though my keyboard seemed to lack half the keystrokes necessary to create things like brackets, dashes and question marks, and had a button which said 'help' in Italian. This was in itself a replacement for a previous device which had a non-functioning hyphen/underscore key, letter 'P', and space bar. All fairly essential when working with type I'd say, though I got around it by copying and pasting those elements.

As I guessed it might do, this week's booking wound up early. I left early at around half four, which I didn't mind really as it was such an unseasonably lovely day. Walked up past Spitalfields and cut across the road near Liverpool Street Station, then up through Shoreditch to the roundabout at Old Street, where I caught the 55 up through Clerkenwell to Oxford Street.

Went for a nose round the Cosh gallery on Wardour Street looking in vain for a print I saw there a month or two ago by Fred Deakin, which now adorns his new mix cd. Gone gone gone, alas. After that I headed north of Oxford Street to meet Ade outside his work, before adjourning for a pint at some generic Noho rentapub. I had left my Golden Virginia at home, so underwent the slightly humbling ritual of offering to 'buy' a rollup off someone, whereupon I was surrounded by a host of eager hands proffering tobacco products, for no fee.

I headed back home after that, stopping for some food at the consistently excellent Silver Lake, which I sat and ate in front of the telly. Hotel Babylon was on, which is one of those ultra Beeb-by-numbers programmes which is presumably by now generated by a proprietory algorythm somewhere in the heart of Television Centre. Fairly uninteresting, in spite of its arsenal of sub-Lock-Stock editing.

Anyway I'm sleepy now. Some work of my own to get on with tomorrow, then in the evening, to the Ritzy in Brixton to see the new David Lynch film. Might eat in the cafe there beforehand, though hopefully it won't take as long as last time when I waited an hour for a pizza. Cheerio.

Car Alarms

"There's gonna be a lot of slow singin' and flower bringin', if my burglar alarm starts ringin'"

Oomphed the Notorious Big in 1994 on Warning off Ready to Die. I kind of know how he felt.

After working until late the other night, I arrived home, and after performing my usual nightime rituals fell into my usual restless sleep at around half two, to be awoken at around five by the most insanely irritating car alarm I think I've ever heard, reverberating from the depths of the estate behind my flat. As winter in Enland begins to feel ever more like Spring, I still sleep with my window very slightly open, which might have had something to do with it rousing me, but it was still both extremely loud and unsettling.

There are various sorts or car alarms I commonly hear at night from my digs in South London. Some meep plaintively in the middle distance like folorn metal dinosaurs (and are almost charming for about twenty seconds), while some seem to cycle Jive-Bunny style through a whole collection of sonic effects, like a kind of Stars on 45 mastermix of alarm tones. These last ones at least manage to inject some brief novelty to the programme with their cacophonous battery of electronic beeps and whistles, and listening to them you could at least perhaps pretend you were on the final approach to an orbital rave just off the M25. Not so this one, which was low, deliriously insistent, and oscillated almost imperceptibly. It was menacing for being utterly unremarkable yet extremely loud; and seemed to penetrate my walls as effortlessly as gamma rays.

It also went on for fucking ages, and having made the above comparison with radiation, I began to wonder how long it would take for the sound of the alarm alone to kill me if we were the only things in the universe, and I was otherwise immortal and impervious to the effects of denourishment and old age. Quite a while, I thought, or even worse: never.

Eventually, after what seemed like around fifty years it stopped, though whether this was because the proud owners came out and switched off the wretched thing, or the thieves returned to steal that as well I will never know.

But one thing I do know is that these devices are useless. Some alarms people take heed of—fire alarms in offices for instance—as even though it's most probably a test, it is unanimously observed and in any event gets you away from Microsoft Outlook for twenty minutes. Burglar alarms too make people sit up, especially if it's in your own house, and if I were on a spaceship and the klaxons started blaring (along with the ubiquitous female voice intoning "warning, warning") then I'd really get worried. Or in a lift. Could be a lift.

But car alarms? Who gives a crap. Everyone's instinctive response to a car alarm is to simply think "I really hope someone switches that car alarm off soon" rather than feeling obliged to go and investigate whether a crime is in progress. Firstly because you rather think that anyone with such a ghastly device attached to their car sort of deserves to have it stolen, but mostly secondly, because there is no felony ocurring, and the banshee-like shriek reverberating and clanging off the houses around it is simply broadcasting to the surrounding neighbourhood that a cat just jumped onto a bonnet.

Car alarms evoke a similar philosophical paradox to the old "tree falling with no-one to hear it" paradigm, only this urban koan might be expressed thus:

"If a car alarm goes off and everyone can hear it, but no-one can even be bothered even going to the window to look, is it worth buying the fucking thing in the first place?"

Which it might not be. Getting an alarm strikes me as being a bit (but not a great deal) like getting an extended warranty for the new widescreen TV you're so proud of: probably not much use, but it makes you feel more secure about the entire thing. No, probably the best way to deter car thieves is simply not to leave your gleaming Powerbook on one of the seats, unless of course you're planning an elaborate 'MacIntyre Investigates' type sting, and what's he been up to recently, I ask you (probably exactly this).

Of course some cars do have gleaming security systems that would give the Death Star a run for it's money, with immobilisers and whatnot should you be worried about them actually being driven off by your as-yet unmet foes, though in this case the thieves will probably just cut out the middleman and try getting the keys instead, by hook or by crook – and a Shepherd's crook might just do for fishing them off the hall table.

And I've no doubt that in the annals of history there are a multitude of instances in which the not-so-humble car alarm has proven it's worth ("my car alarm saved me from a fishing accident in Val D'isere etc.") but their dreary lowing in the wee hours is a high price to pay. The geese that saved Rome probably had quite a few false alarms but at least they laid eggs, and proabably regretted it come Christmas.

Ultimately, I think no-one is as thankful for a car alarm as when they finally stop after a an extended session—though be aware, some do have a propensity to return like hiccups you thought you'd beaten—and the sense of relief that immediately descends on a neighbourhood in the aftermath is all but palpable, as a host of bodies wearily roll over and grunt in satisfaction (that might just be post coital though). This is the zenith of the peace of mind that a car alarm affords: the silence sculpted by their own absence, and for that they should be rightfully consigned to some rogues gallery of slightly crap artifacts people use habitually aren't much good (see Washing Up Bowls).

All this said I don't own a car, and were I became a card carrying car owner and buy into all this jive, I might swiftly revise my opinion. If in 10 years time you bump into me on the mean streets of Dulwich with a stroller and a chocolate labrador in tow, I'll maybe also have the Chealsea tractor parked back at the ranch fortified with a sonic defense system capable of melting ears. This is conditional on both London still being above water by then and me ever earning some money however, so I wouldn't count on it.

Bayswater

I'm working in Bayswater. Not been here before.

I'm in a medium sized design group who seem to specialise in quite sobre corporate communications. I'm in a little room connected to the basement studio. It has padded walls.. not sure what to make of that.

Working on yet another weary sounding G4, the sound of whose hard drive spinning is a bit like washing machine dancing toward a cliff edge.

Didn't sleep much Sunday night and ended up reading Notes On A Scandal in pretty much one sitting. Quite enjoyable, really, though I felt a bit like a wrung out dishtowel on Monday.

The weekend:
On Friday night I went up East to see Sam and Kay. We went for a curry near Broadway Market that was perfectly decent. I always suspect that unless curries were outrageously bad I wouldn't be much aware of it mind – it strikes me that Hot food could probably mask a multitude of lesser evils. But it was nice, and they gave us a free drink and an After 8 mint each.

After that we went to a party in their old block of flats, held by Kays friend Lucy. Nice place.. she'd papered the toilet walls with (I think) Tim Burton Illustrations. Nice sink in the bathroom too.

We left about midnight and parted ways. Bit of a mission getting home, but home I wanted to go. I Caught a bus to London Bridge having narrowly missed the social experiment that is the 35 at that time of night, whereupon the heavens opened. Luckily I had a crappy umbrella bought from a tourist shop near Bond Street, which deflected some of the downpour, before starting to unravel under the rain's onslaught.

I'm thinking about buying a place – or at least borrowing an obscene amount of money to buy a place. I want a nice sink, and to have all my pictures where I want them on the walls. Living with less people might be a plus too, though I doubt I'll be able to become a complete hermit just yet.

Accordingly I went and looked at a flat just off Dog Kennel Hill on Saturday. Nice-ish area (between Camberwell and Dull-wich) opposite a Sainsburys. It was in a block of flats, which from a distance looked ok, but up close wasn't so pretty. The flat was a decent-ish price for its size, but this was reflected in its state of repair as it needed quite a lot doing to it. It was also quite hard to see beyond the family of ten or so people currently living there (I'm afraid my precious sensibilities where slightly taken aback by that). I remember as a kid being much more aware of the smell of other peoples houses, and its seeming strangeness.. these days most places just seem to have a neutral aroma, or maybe I'm just desensitised to new environments. This place however had quite a pungent smell, a heady fug of people and kids, with a rich undertow of nappies. All of which is not to paint it as some Road-To=Wigan-Pier-esque portrait of squallor, but it was pretty hard to pierce the veil of humanity to scry what the flat beneath might one day look.

This entire lark seems slightly daunting actually, and having got a few friends who've been through the mill and back on this jape, I don't anticipate it getting any easier. My old mate Ade has just had pretty much the definitive nightmare experience in trying to buy a place, where the current owner defaulted on her mortgage repayments and the bank has retaken posession.. none of which would have ocurred had she actually removed her head from her anus and completed her end of the transaction four or so months ago.

She's been utterly opaque and duplicitous in her dealings, remote and impossible to contact in France somewhere. From the sounds of it, she's either bankrupt, dodgy, very stupid, or all three, but in any event her refusal to take responsibility for her actions is so utterly selfish it defies belief. Ade, I'm feeling for you mate.

But I digress.

Saturday night I went to my friend Lucy's party in Balham, after a few crafty beers in The Hermits, and Sunday didn't do a hell of a lot other than not sleep. Last night I watched The 7 Samurai round at Ed's place, though I kept drifting off. My favourite character is Kikuchiyo, the bearded wildcard with the huge sword. If the seven Samurai were the Wu Tang Clan he'd be ODB no question.

Anyway. Back to work, which just at the minute is setting up ad templates for, wait for it... An estate agents! Good god.

Competition ripper ever since 13..

A short youtube video of Biggie freestyling, sometime in 89 I guess..



Proof positive if needed that even at the 'tender' age of 17 the big guy could rap. I kind of wish you got to see the guy he's battling's attempt though..

Saturday

It's been a pretty barren week really. A featureless desert of mediocrity punctuated by the odd spike of misadventure.

On Valentine's day I stayed at work 'til eight, photo-shopping visuals of sub-menus on mobile phone screens. That was my hot date. As I left the building I smashed my knee against the plate glass door in the lobby with a crack like a rifle's retort. A couple (it would be a couple) passing by whirled round in surprise, and determined not to add insult to injury, I feigned insouciance, strolling up the street until I'd turned the corner, whereupon I collapsed double, clutching at my knee in agony.

The rest of the night was redeemed somewhat by the presence of a couple of bottles of Czech beer, and 'Preston' storming off Never Mind The Buzzcocks because Simon Amstell was taking the piss out of 'Chantel'.

Thursday night I went to Allez Allez, which was good, but I was fairly pissed before I even went there as I quaffed about four pints in the Bath House on Dean Street with my production homies. I wobbled out around eight, and purchased some food from the Japanese place on Oxford Street. Two triangular rice briquettes with teriyaki chicken hearts.

The night was good, anyway. The journey home wasn't. I caught the 35, and promptly fell asleep, waking up just as it was passing through Elephant.. on its way back into town. The bus had gone all the way to Clapham, and I'd awoken on its return orbit. It was ten past three.

I walked, tired and confused, from London Bridge to Elephant, where I bought a Columbian pattie.. which was like a fluorescent yellow deep fried samosa. Caught the bus home and got to sleep sometime after four.

I was tired on Friday. Fucking tired. Work was dull, as it has been, but then ended suddenly, as these bookings do. I retreat a point of sale hero. Freelance bookings, when they finish after an extended stint, are always a bit like a mini redundancy, announced with minimal fanfare: "Tom, it's quietened down now, so we won't be needing you next week". Which is fine, but after three months, I have to undergo a desk clearing ritual – weeding sign-off sheets from the miscellaneous bale of paper chaff perched on the end of the desk, doing some cursory filing and sweeping flakes of breakfast pastry into the cold five milimetres or so of Starbucks Venti Americano in the paper cup abandoned left of the blurry monitor. Even though I was pretty content to be going, there was something slightly sombre about the affair.

Three months working somewhere also seems just enough time to get a broad understanding of a particular workplace's politics. Who's shagging who, who's good at their job, who's crap at their job (by general concensus or otherwise) what drugs such and such did at the last Christmas bash etc. etc. Kind of interesting in a gossipy kind of way, though I'm glad I don't have to get too embroiled in it all. Nice bunch of people there, generally, though it was all quite quiet and intense. A real heads-down graft type of place, or as one of the artowkers was saying " a bit like a library".

Desk cleared I hiked up to The Angel after work, to meet Fran in a pub on Liverpool Road with her friend Kev. It was really good to see Fran, who was over from Jersey for an audition. The part sounded really interesting, too.

I left around eleven to get the tube as I didn't want to sleep on anyone's floor. A huge poster for Orange Mobile opposite the platform was really getting on my tits. The current campaign's strapline is: "People are good together" and the poster depicted two girls lying in a park in the sun looking at something out of shot.. only, by some trick of perspective they appear to share a single head. Like most of Orange's advertising I found it to be annoyingly obtuse, but more than that — misguided. I think Orange are attempting to give themselves a kooky offbeat appeal by the slightly whimsical tone of their imagery, but this was just slightly creepy; hallucinatory, David Lynch-esque. I moved up the platform to get away from it.

On the tube I read Friday's copy of the Metro, which had a really depressing spread on the Peckham shootings. One quote in really managed to wind me up a bit, where Charles Bailey of anti-gun group Don't Shoot said (amongst other things):

"Guns aren't coming from black people but they are being sold to black people. We need help from the Government to stop this happening"

Huh? Meaning what? Shouldn't sale of guns be stopped full-stop? Is this some kind of conspiracy then? Surely of more paramount importance is demarginalising whole swathes of angry south London kids, and teaching people not to fetishise violence. A proliferation of firearms is no good thing, but more worrying still is that people—kids—actually want to buy them and use them so wantonly.

Anyway. A hairy topic that I'm not going to attempt to grapple with right now.

I arrived back in Camberwell around 12. There's an Eastern European alcoholic guy I see a round quite a lot. Mid-thirties. Stubbly. Generally wears a baseball cap and shades. He quite often sidles up to people and starts holding forth in a rambling pissed diatribe he finds hilarious. The other day I saw him outside a liquor store with a laundry bag stuffed with nine two-litre bottles of rotgut cider. He had a can in his hand. Last night he was involved in some kind of argument with a group of rudegirls who were aiming high kicks at his chest, and yelling things like "Fack off dirty tramp man". Oh dear.

I got in and retired to bed feeling slightly troubled by it all.

Saturday today, and on a more positive note.. Tlon books has had a stay of execution. Yes, rumours of its demise were greatly exagerated by yours truly, though things aren't looking too sunny. According to the guy at the counter the landlords (Southwark council no less) have been upping the rent, and seem to want to evict them so they can effect the much lauded renewal of Elephant with no strings attached. I signed a petition about it, and he's going to email me some info, which I'll post here when I get it.

I might go to Old Street tonight.. might not though. Not sure if I can be bothered. I'm also pretty skint until I can transfer some money on monday. We'll see.

Tlon books RIP

I made a fairly typical foray down the Walworth Road at the weekend, to nose round some charity shops, with my ultimate destination being the Elephant and Castle shopping centre. Hardly the most auspicious of locations, and I'll freely admit the only reason I ever ventured into the big concrete and plastic cube at all was to visit the slightly creased second hand bookshop therein: Tlon Books.

The last time I went up I picked up a couple of half decent crime novels—Dog Eat Dog by Edward Bunker and Blood in Brooklyn by Gary Loveski—for a very reasonable price, and was returning to see if I could repeat the trick.

Imagine my dismay then, when I rocked up to discover that it was shut. Dismay that only deepened when I read the cursory typed letter affixed to the door, which stated effectively that the proprerty had been seized by the landlord, and anyone attempting to gain entry to reclaim stock would be subject to legal proceedings, or perhaps more likely in Southwark, visited by a man and his dog for a 'chat'.

So another one bites the dust.

With Wordsworth and now Tlon gone, the only Bookshop nearby is the one in Brixton (as far as I know) and it really is something of a loss for me. I do a lot of reading both in the small hours and and on the bus and tube, and probably get through two books a week, so being able to buy cheaper second-hand is a boon.

Tlon books wasn't the cheapest, but it was fairly priced, and I enjoyed going there for an hour or two just to browse the shelves. Being able to buy cheaper also means that I felt able to take a risk on something I might not otherwise have bothered with, and investigate other genres or writers I'd never come across before. It was fairly compendious too, stocking everything from fiction to reference books on everything from art and design to history.

The note on the door seemed to suggest the shop's seizure was due to unpaid rent, and I've got to admit, if there's precious little money in books, there's even less in second hand ones, and hardly enough to satisfy the ambitious, or ultimately the landlords. I always suspect that independent ventures like this, and record shops of course, are often run and worked in by fanatical hobbyists who do it for the love rather than cutting a healthy profit, but if you can't even pay the rent.. well. Game over. Sad really. I really have something of an affection for institutions of great merit but with little financial acumen which soldier on anyway. A bit like Hugh Grant's bookshop in Notting Hill (joke: I haven't actually seen it. The film that is, not the place, obviously).

It got me thinking about London, and how, while I love the city, one of the things I really dislike about it is the price of rent. Not so much personally as that's pretty reasonable, but in terms of the ludicrous value of property in general, which motivates the landed to some fairly greedy profiteering.

The business of buying and renting property these days often strikes me as a fairly sordid area of business, what with everyone being either obsessed with pursuing property or thrashing round in the ensuing money-pit, and this extends from the guy you rent your bedsit from to the corporate behemoth that leases office space in Canary Wharf. Let's face it. No-one's a landlord out of charity, and even the good ones generally have something of a shall we say, laissez faire attitude toward upkeep.

Astronomical rent ultimately ultimately prices out the small guy or the independent trader, as it eats into their modest income. There used to be a pretty good comic shop on the Charing Cross Road, which shut down last year. On the day of its closing, I overheard the owner talking to a customer and telling him (almost inevitably a him in a comic shop) that the landord had suddenly hiked the yearly rent from a pretty damn expensive £60K to a jaw-dropping £100,000 per annum. A sum that seems not so much astronomical to me as interstellar.

As his customer observed "how many comic books would you have to sell to pay that?" and the proprietor stated that he was reluctantly migrating his business online. It sounds to me like the landlord heard somewhere of a similar property going for as much, and appetite well and truly whetted endevoured to stoke the fires of their greed with bales of the crisp folding stuff.

I quite often walk past that same shop, and it seems now to be full of crappy plastic umbrellas. I can only assume that they're the landord's own, as I can't see how they're going to pay the rent. So.. a tenant gone, a property vacant, and London slightly less interesting for it. I've seen it happen to a few places over the last year or so, and I can't really see the situation improving.

I also noted with dismay that both the Astoria and Hammersmith Palais are closing shortly, and while I must admit I've only ever been to one of those venues, I'm aggrieved in principle to venues such as this shutting down in the name of some bland homogenous progress. These are outlets for the music that gives London such a vibrant night-life, and once they're gone, they're gone.

There was quite an interesting piece in the Guardian last year—penned by Banksy—which cited the negative effects of the Melbourne games on the thriving street art scene there, before in turn positing that much the same might happen in East London when the Olympics arrive in 2012. Pessimistic or not (and I'm only so bothered about 'street' art), I agreed with some of its points. Too often these days the landscape of our cities is dictated by corporations which flatten all before them in their quest for monopoly, by buying up space to hedge out the competition.

Ultimately this would leave us with the same lineup of poe-faced brands—whose hegemony is already apparent crowding our public space in ever more intrusive ways. I don't necessarily mind places like Starbucks (they have their place) but when their nitrous runoff stagnates and chokes the city of its diversity, then I'm pissed. Yeah, let's have your shop with its extravagantly priced infusions derived from beans you paid someone in the third world fuck all for, but let's have some greasy spoons too, some Italian caffs, some local flavour.

Ultimately of course, oversaturation could be their downfall. Globalisation makes for a handy catch all term here, though I personally find the slow annexing of britain by supermarkets the most obviously irritating thing (sometimes it feels like I'm being slowly surrounded by Tesco Metros). People are already somewhat desensitized to the hi-gloss of advertising, which is why all too often these days, big business strives for ever more resourceful means to displace its mass, through viral incursions schemed to slip beneath the radar of credibility. As consumers become ever sophisticated, the more advertising strives to camouflage itself as 'street-buzz' or word of mouth, using the slang and tropes of oral and visual youth culture. This can pay dividends but also backfire disasterously, as was evidenced by the 'blog' Sony set up to promote the new PSP last year. As fast moving consumer groups mover ever faster, the tone of such campaigns must become ever more nuanced if it is to keep up without being outed, though it is highly, highly amusing to see them cock up, poor dears.

It is quite ironic that big business appropriates the cultural capital of subcultures, while at the same time marginalising them, but nothing new. I just hope that after the Olympics come and go, there is still affordable rent for the starving artists to keep on starving up east, and more generally, bits of London are allowed to persist as areas fertile for interaction, excitement and creativity, regardless of whether they are covered in spray paint or you can purchase a skinny venti latte there..

Anyway. I've ranted about this before and I am positive, but in the short term, where can I buy a cheap book? Tlon, I'm gonna miss ya.

Thursday

I'm tired. And a bit drunk.

Work's been a grind this week. No successes, no victories. Just trying to get stuff out the door. Quietly fielding phone calls off the tired account manager, from the phone on Lydia's desk, while Mac OSX's eye/beachball of death whirls at me from the screen of the slightly flustered G4 I'm working with.

Drunk, tired, yadda yadda whatever.

Tagged (twice)

So on Thursday last, Gridrunner tagged me with a viral question meme, which invites you to volunteer five facts about yourself that are, to quote the man "(less than obvious)". This is actually the second time I've been nominated for this, the first being over Christmas by the chap over at TracknKern. Man's got a dot com, works and plays in Oz. Peace.

So anyway, here goes, five things about ME:

1. My favourite colour used to be yellow, but I think it's green now. Is that allowed? When it comes to design I sometimes wish I had more of a synaesthetic response to colour and could assign straightforward associations to a pallete. It's never that simple though and there's always going to some duality to what emotional response a particular colour evokes, e.g. green can be perceived as relaxing or connote envy. It's all contextual I suppose. The standard colours of retail press advertising also happen to be the red black and white beloved of national socialism. Go figure.

2. The last thing that made me cry (sniff) was the end of 'The Road' by Cormac McCarthy, which I really didn't expect. It's a fairly harrowing read, set in the onset of a nuclear winter precipitated by a cataclysmic war he describes simply as: "a long shear of light and then a series of low concussions". It follows a man and his son on their journey south in search of warmth and food, beset by the gangs of marauding cannibals who stalk the blasted roads of America after a fire that has scourged the earth of life; where no plant, beast, bird or fish prospers.

Needless to say, It hasn't got a happy ending, though.. Nah, go read it yourselves.

3. I don't get football. I don't mind it or anything.. I just can't ever get excited about it. One of the questions I get asked a lot upon happening upon a new work environment is "what team do you follow?", to which, with a sub-vocal sigh, I must—almost apologetically—mumble "Er, I don't really follow it to be honest", which pretty much nips in the bud that avenue of banter.

While I wouldn't exactly class this as a handicap, I must admit having no interest in the de facto male opening conversational gambit probably eliminates at least 50% of the conversations I might be having with geezers I don't really know. Football is the lingua franca of the bloke, and even a passing knowledge of some of its trivia seems to function as a kind of masonic handshake, wherever you are in the world.

When backpacking in Hostels across Europe, my friend Andy told me how he would sometimes end up cohabiting with groups of guys who spoke no English, while he himself didn't speak a word of, say, Polish. In situations like this where communication was a problem, all he had to do however was rattle off the names of a few players on the Polish National Squad, and sure enough within minutes he was all but being borne aloft on the shoulders of his cheering, newfound buddies.

When it's not inspiring them to glass each other on the terraces whilst wearing Burberry, football breaks more ice amongst groups of men globally than American industry's carbon footprint does in the Arctic Circle, and by not having a working knowledge of it my 'arsenal' (pun intended) I am already at a social disadvantage. Sometimes, on slow rainy days I even contemplate getting 'into' it.. but nah, fuck that, I'll just apportion more of my energy to my other overwhelmingly male trait: accruing and hoarding crap I don't really need.

This is my favourite footy song.

4. One of my favourite musical genres is disco. No seriously. Back in the days when my mates were raving to acid techno this used to get a few raised eyebrows, but to quote 'Withnail and I' even a stopped clock keeps the right time twice a day, and I harbour grave doubts that anyone will be listening to Routemaster Records in thirty years time (me-yow!).

One of my all time musical heroes, if I'm permitted them, is undoubtedly Vincent Montana, who conducted the orchestral backing for more classic joints on both the Salsoul and Philadelphia labels than man's had hot meals. The march of technological innovation in music these days seems to be towards democratisation, where a bedroom producer can put out records that can all but rival the high end production gloss of the big studios. Against this, the idea of making dance records with a full orchestra seems quaint, unwieldy, fantastic, decadent, and frankly unlikely. But that was how it was done back then. No matter how much I love electronica, I would argue that there is an emotional charge that live instrumentation imparts that no amount of studio wibble can lend, and it's the strings that do it for me; the crying voice of the violins soaring and zigging above a track always makes the hairs on the back of my neck just stand on end.

Heady and escapist, exquisite and seedy in equal measure, diso was the effective precursor to modern day dance music for the clubs. A hybrid form straddling the genres of Latin and soul it was at its best also a profoundly inclusive genre, bridging differences in class, race and sexuality. I suspect I'm just getting nostalgic for scene I never participated in, but I do sometimes fantasize about what it must have been like to be alive and partying in new york in the 70s.. maybe living in Brooklyn?

I must remind myself of course that utopias never persist for long, if they even exist at all, and it did all get quite nauseatingly rank in the dark days of its twilight. As cretinous as as Steve Dahl's 'Disco Sucks' campaign was, the cheesier excesses of the Bee Gees and Abba are enough to induce a gag reflex in anyone, and are rightly reviled.

And even these days, that stigma lingers, though what with everything being so post-modern and everything, it's getting better. And of course, some people understand, with disco having advocates in some very surprising quarters. One of the best disco jocks I ever saw was a dude called Big Rob, who was big, had corn rows, and looked like he should be back-spinning MOP joints, rather than the sublime 70s plastic he was serving up. Special mention must also be made of Stu and the Love The Action crew back up north, who'd be guaranteed to give you a firm nod of approval anytime you fancied cueing up a Quincy Jones track.

OK disco rant over. Any non-believers should track down a copy of Kenny Dope's 'Disco Heat' where he edits together and seamlessly mixes up a range of records that you'll probably recognise from the house tracks that sampled them. Either that or get over to Mixoftheweek.com (not actually that weekly as far as I can see) and get plugged in to 'The Sound Of Philadelphia' trio of mixes.

5. My favourite mode of transport is walking, and I think I'm pretty good at it at a fairly mateur level. One of my favourite wastes of time (and I've a few, believe me) is just walking round town to my favourite places, checking things out en route. It's a fantastic way to explore and see things you wouldn't catch from the tube or even the bus window. Just occasionally I'll suddenly find I've wandered on to a slightly rough looking estate, and start counting bin bags in trees and leashless dogs to try and quantify the danger, but really, what's life without a little excitement? Sorry if that sounded like a broadcast from the Ministry of Walking.

Anyway.. that wasn't so bad. Hope I didn't bore any of you. Now the not-so-hard-part (there aren't that many blogs I read really). I nominate:

Si
Doppelganger
Zeno
Lord Bunty Chunk
Mountainear

CELEBRITY SIGHTING* – UPDATE

Just spotted: comedic tag team Punt and Dennis in the Pret A Manger on Wardour Street. Just now. Literally. If you run you might still catch them (though not if you're coming from Stockport).

*When I loosely apply the term 'celebrity' I'm referring to anyone alloted more than the standard 15 minutes of fame, who I've seen on TV more than once, and considering the rampant bar-lowering by shows such as Celebrity Big Brother as to what constitutes a celebrity, I reckon even I count as famous by now, so there.

The weekend, The Running Man, Tuesday.

After a slightly stressful Friday evening maniacally tabbing contract documents where the person who'd set it up hadn't bothered to name any of the layers, I escaped about half seven to meet friends in the Theatre Bar on Charing Cross Road, for Kay's Birthday.

We had a few drinks, then ducked out when everyone went for karaoke. Sorry, but I just can't go for that, even if they do have Hall and Oates.

Saturday met up with Ben at the corporation in Shoreditch, who was over from Ireland to see his gran. Alright place the corporation. Interestingly shaped first floor bar, anyway. It was very busy, and there seemed to be quite a few lesbians there, though not the lipstick sort who write advice columns for mens magazines such as Loaded.

Wound up at It's bigger than, where we were regaled with a set of squidgy house by a DJ in a trucker cap. I couldn't be bothered shelling out for the after party, so caught the 35 home. A couple of my housemates were up, and I sat with them for a while in Marv's room. He managed to get an inky oil paint fingerprint on my Adidas jacket when giving me a drunken hug, which is the second item of clothing of mine he's managed 'clart up' in as many weeks, along with my Stussy shirt he splattered with red wine just before New Year *sighs* "Ma-arv..".

On Sunday went round to Helen's new place in Brixton for dinner, which Will cooked. We popped out for a drink at the pub round the corner – The Effra, which is one of those places you would probably never stumble across if you didn't live locally or get taken there, sitting as it does just off the beaten track. Interesting mixed crowd and gloriously down-at-heels pubby-ness. Dan Sarabji was over from Cypress, which he's planning on leaving soon for Paris, having decided to leave the Archeological profession. There are only so many things to dig up, in so many ways, it would seem.

Watched Verrhoven's 'The Running Man' last night, which I always enjoy. There's something crudely effective about his films, a streak of visceral nastiness he doesn't attempt to disguise, and rather glories in instead. It pushes buttons for me. Big early nineties ones.

Tuesday now. London's rush hour traffic is back up to speed, or lack of, and now costs more than ever to participate in. The servers are down at work. All of them. Which isn't really surprising as this is the land that IT forgot. This sort of gives me an excuse to wander round the internet, idling away the hours, but I'm also aware that there's loads of work lurking in the wings, which I'll just have less time to do – or more time to do in the evening, which in spite of overtime, I can't really be bothered with right now.

Film night tonight, which the Sun and Doves website tells me is a Jean-Pierre Melville film, Le Doulos. I may go, or might be working on Point of Sale. Couldn't really say, though I know what I'd prefer to be doing.

Anyway. Anyone got any tips for removing oil paint stains from acrylic sportswear? Answers on a postcard to the usual address..

January

It's Thursday the fourth of January, and I'm back at work. Indeed I started back on the second. Perhaps ironically I'm back at Start in Soho. What more fitting way to commence the year than this.

I don't think I've worked on the second of January since, well, ever. Returning to work is always something of a shock, but doing it this abruptly feels as brutal an introduction to the new year as being woken from sleep by crashing through a skylight into a pool of ice cold water, perhaps on the back of a giant concrete pigeon. Two weeks off seems just long enough to forget, utterly, what work is like (someone tells you what to do, you do it, a short while later a sum of money is deposited in your account).

Januarys truly are the Monday mornings of the year, and by that reasoning it's going to be three-point-seven weeks before lunchtime, when I can at least pop out for a sandwich from Marks and Spencers. The cheery, alcoholic bonhomie of Christmas has evaporated, ethanol-like, and once more the Londoners resume the daily grind, commuting in the gloom, hands feverishly questing for copies of the Metro, iPod earbuds inserted.

Although Christmas oficially ends on Twelth Night (the sixth of January) I really can't be doing with Christmas decorations after New Year's Day, and spying them is a bit like smelling a liquer you drank until sick in your teens: faintly nauseating. The corporate decorations above regent street will probably be here until March (it's just the way these things work) but otherwise most places seem to be shedding their tinselly skin pronto: good.

January is named after the Roman god Janus—the god who looks both ways—presumably as even then it was seen as a time for both reflection of the year past, and anticipation of the year to come.

Last year was.. ok. Some good things happened, but there were also a lot of disappointments I can't really be bothered dwelling on. I don't really go in for New Years resolutions, but apart from the usual guff (drink less, smoke less, be amazing) I am going to try and be a bit more proactive (whoah there!) and perhaps make a bit more effort to stay in touch with certain people. This has been the first Christmas in a while when I didn't see a couple of people I usually see at that this time of year, and it's all to easy to drop off people's Christmas card lists, so to speak.

As for New Year's Eve.. it was fine. After some Mexican food, much Cava, and a game of Pictionary (which my team WON) we walked round the corner to a party at a squat overlooking Burgess park, that seemed to be mostly populated by Spanish people. It was a nice flat too, apart from some predictably wonky new age graffiti of suns and moons, and a hole in the shape of Africa someone had carved into the kitchen ceiling. We had fun and my housemate Cecilia got more drunk than I've ever seen her before.There were a couple of DJs, including a Japanese guy who looked a bit like Towa-Tei because of his beret and oversized sunglasses (despite it being past midnight). He proceeded to play a couple of boxes of funk seven inches, badly if that's possible, though the tunes were good. There was someone else playing dub too, which made for a nice change. I eventually left when the house band came on and started jamming in a Spanish stylee. The rhythm was a bit fuzzy as the drummers and accompanying clapping kept slipping out of phase, and it was a bit like trying to dance to hail.

We sat up for a bit at home, where Marvyn tried to get people to rap along to Nas, some with limited success, but eventually the food and booze tooks its toll, and I crawled up to bed.

In years past, New Year's Day was generally something of a hedonistic affair, and I'd often be in the pub (or more likely The Bar in Chorlton) from one in the afternoon onwards, quaffing european lager with my partners in crime. Not so this year, as what with working on the Tuesday n' all, it wasn't really practical. Instead we went for a few beers in the evening at the Hermit's, then trotted off home for two hours of soaps.

And this week's been fine, really. Not much traffic on the roads, and the kids are still off school, so getting to work's a relative cinch. I'm reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman and really enjoying it. No real plans for this weekend, but it's Kay's birthday, so am meeting her for a drink in the Theatre Bar on Charing Cross Road tomorrow. Other than that, who knows?

CELEBRITY SIGHTING UPDATE: Ian Hislop in the offices of Private Eye in Soho on Tueday (so no real surprise there really).

Shunt, Allez Allez, Banking, Santa's Ghetto

Thursday

It was Allez Allez last night, so I headed out at about eight o' clock with Jess, to rendevouz with Ade, Robin and Hannah at London Bridge.

I don't go out in London Bridge much, the only other times I can remember of note being my ex-housemates Christmas bash at The Hop Cellar last week and drinking in some cheesey hostel bar (Belushi's) with Lucy last September.

The venue this time was somewhat mysterious, and the directions could have only been marginally more obscure if tatooed on a dwarf and then sent to me through the post, but nonetheless after some ambling around in the frigid cold, me and Jess eventually found the place in question, Shunt Bar, which is located under the arches adjacent to London Bridge Station.

After entering a tiny unmarked doorway, you are directed down a long corridor, through a succession of arches, housing chairs, benches, and in one case, a small cinema auditorium, screening some arty flick to an audience of one. All of this works as a dramatic prelude to the bar itself, the sound of whose revelry floats up as you traipse uncertainly down, and basically it's like rocking up on the outskirts of a very tame, somewhat underpopulated suburb of hell (perhaps at some kind of judgement day wrap party).

The bar when you actually arrive is a cavernous, post-industrial affair, with bare brick floors, bare brick walls, decks on trestle tables, and a shed. I bought a bottle of Magners and a Baileys for Jess, who had the luck of getting the end of the bottle, as the girl behind the bar gave her a dose of Nesquik-esque proportions. After this we found Ade et-al and sat down.

This venue seems like something of an anomaly for touristy London bridge, and seems to have attracted the kind of hip crowd you'd usually catch wearing drainpipes and pointy shoes in a watering hole in Hoxton. It is a truly remarkable space however, and exactly the kind of 'cool' thing I came to London to participate in. Jess liked it so much she didn't want to leave.

But leave we did, wherupon one of the venue's institutions kicked in – an artistic 'happening' where a naked man smeared in axle grease capered round to the strains of some suitably manic music, and had plum tomatoes and dust upended on him in different corners of the room. It was like a version of that children's TV mainstay 'the gunk tank', for the inebriated chattering classes, and the highlight (no pun intended) was when someone trained a lazer pointer on the chap's todger as he prepared to shower in passata while standing on a chair. Apparently this always takes place at 10.30pm, though I'm not sure whether this is just on Thursdays.

Then off to the bijou Allez Allez, which got really busy this week, as anyone not nursing a hangover on the last work day of December can probably expect a written warning from Ken Livingstone himself. Katie and Penny were there, neither of whom I'd seen in ages, along with Kaye and various It's Bigger Than affiliates (I spotted Cutmaster Max and Leo The Amateur reppin' at the other end of the bar).

Caught a taxi home at about half three, and sat up for a while wolfing down cold Chinese food from the fridge and hiccuping at Jess, before swaying to bed at around five.

Friday

I full intended to leap out of bed this morning, but only just managed to blearily field a phone call from a recruitment consultant in the entire AM (does anyone else sleep with their mobile under their pillow, or is it just me?). Eventually got up at around half one, and consumed my own body mass in strong coffee and white toast with vegemite.

After this, the day's business began in earnest, as I had to both go to the bank to transfer funds from my business account and do my Christmas shopping, which in a break from tradition I opted not to leave until Christmas Eve.

I first went to the HSBC—they're the world's local bank, don't you know?—in Camberwell, and was immediately reminded why I usually go the branch on Baker street when I want anything doing. The customer service stand had simply vanished, to be replaced by a sheepish looking conglomeration of chairs, which were arranged in a formation reminiscent of the aftermath of a creche at a church hall somewhere. There were a few people sitting uneasily around, not really sure what was going on, or how to behave without a qeueue.

"Oh, for fucks sake"

I thought, while at the same time being vaguely amused that any institution with the chutzpah to brand themselves 'the world's local bank' could so shamelessly do away with the symbolic apparatus of customer service in a local branch.

"Sorry, no, if you want customer service the nearest branch is on Oxford Street"

I could imagine being told, but actually got seen to after about twenty minutes, after which I hopped on the twelve into town, for the aforementioned Christmas shop.

It was all relatively painless, though Oxford Street was rammed, but I braved it for one last nose round 'Santa's Ghetto', the temporary shop Pictures On Walls have put on in an empty store for the last few Christmases I've been here. All the Banksy stuff had sold out in about an hour on the first day, apparently, as everybody is Banksy crazy these days. I'm undecided about Banksy.. some of his stuff is very witty and some of it.. less so; but one thing's for sure, the guy is a very smart cookie. I was in Bristol just when he was starting to make a name for himself there, and even at the time he was really pushing the faceless artist bit (he didn't bother turning up to the opening night of an exhibition of his paintings at the Riverstation) and there seemd to be a little bit of low key 'hating' going on too (some fellow graffiteur took Banksy's trademark stencil logo and reworked it into 'Wanksy'). Either way, I'm kicking myself that I didn't buy one (or eight) of his prints in the 2004/5 sale, which cost about fifty quid then, and I've recently seen being bid for on ebay up to the tune of about £800. Ouch. Anyway, some other good stuff, including some prints by a guy called Sickboy, who I think went to the University of the West of England and was in the year below me at the Bower Ashton campus. A lot of the stuff had been sold, but I bought a screenprint by Insect, whose style I like (though it's not the Warhol influenced DJ Shadow album art one, which was influenced by Andy Warhol both in terms of style and the ambitious scale of the edition).

After that I had a look in the Hideout, and the Maharishi shop, where the back wall was dominated by custom painted variants of Marc Gonzalez's priest toy. They're selling an amazing Fedora hat in there by Kangol and New York shop Alife, which is great, but a little out of my price bracket at £700.

Then I jumped on that most heinous of bendy buses, the 12, to get back to Camberwell. It was predictably rammed to the gills with festive folk, and when we got to Elephant, a troupe of African street preachers boarded and proceeded to belt out an impromptu sermon, interspersed with bouts of song. Initially entertaining, it got slightly annoying after a while so I put on some earphones to drown it out. I was moaning about this to some friends later until Vicky pointed out that if you can't expect this sort of thing at Christmas, when can you expect it, and it is the true meaning of Christmas after all. So there.

Went round to Vicky's house in the evening where she cooked up some lovely pizzas, and I had a couple of glasses of wine. Ed really wanted to go and meet up with some of his Foyles homies in town, and I begrudgingly agreed to tag along, before having a last minute change of heart at the bus-stop. It was just too cold, I was too tired, and the thought of standing shoulder to shoulder in a Charing Cross Road bar at someone elses works do was too much for me to face right then.

Off to Mancunia tomorrow, and following my last farcical misadventure 'on the buses' I opted for the train this time, which should be significantly quicker than a coach. Honestly, people point to the fact that a lot of pensioners use National Express but I suspect they just got a few stops earlier and were my age when they boarded.

In any event, it looks like I got my ticket just in time too, what with most of the papers prophesying festive transport doom: 'Travel Chaos' screeched the London Evening Standard the other day, whilst pointing a shaking finger at the James Herbert-esque fog bank rolling across London, and they seem to be intent on manufacturing a scenario of Die Hard 2 proportions round the grounding of flights at Heathrow, with the villain of the piece being the aforementioned low-lying cloud, rather than a renegade Army Officer.

Anyway. Merry Christmas one and all, and I might write again from Stockport or Wales if Santa tells me you've all been good.

Cheerio.