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..
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
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.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
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?
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?
Thursday, March 22, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
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.
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, March 20, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
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, March 16, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
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.
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.
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