The Luchador's mask is his alternative face, the second skin he inhabits in the ring and the very embodiment of his wrestling persona. The masks are there to enhance the perception in both opponent and crowd, of a blank emotionless Harbinger of Doom, descending from on high to crush all in their path. That's the kinda look I'm going for here. I'm thinking of sporting this ensemble at my next Michael Flately retrospective, do hope you can make it.
Metal. For some time now it has been but a concept, a way of thinking, a genre encapsulating all that is loud and guitar driven. Trust Tenacious D to summon up a physical manifestation of this abstraction, then kick it in the ball...er...goons. Here we see JB and KG laying it down with 'Metal' at the Hammersmith Apollo last night. Hard rocking was the order of the day- cock push-ups, rising at the crack of noon, the random consumption of magic mushrooms - all these things were required before the D was done with us. Having nuked themselves into Hell via some spilt beer and a faulty electrical point, our heroes do the logical thing and form a band with Colonel Sanders on drums (he killed a lot of chickens), Charlie Chaplin on bass and the anti-christ on lead guitar. They duck and dive between the first album and newer tracks and finally have to dual with Satan himself to return to earth, because Kyle forged JD's signature on the contract which got them to hell in the first place. JD is a one man monsoon of sweat by the end of it, and one can only hope a highly efficient roadie washes that one t-shirt Black has been seen in both on stage and on TV for the last two months.
When you fire a pistol, without wearing earmuffs to prevent your brain from liquidizing from the sonic boom, not only are you utterly deafened for days afterwards, you also experience fiendishly aggravated tinnitus. To obtain the same affect over a slightly more prolonged period of time, have a Flat Festival . Invite Testcard to play at your Flat Festival. Stand in front of massive JBL's in said flat while said Testcard sings at you from point blank range. Cry. 
This is also mine, though more on a share basis you know. The v.colourful one belongs to the Loved one, where it will go, nobody knows, possibly not the bedroom, it radiates like a supernova.
The top image is called 'Where's the remote' - it is mine, oh yes. (just need to pay for it, hmmm)
Soon he will be residing in the front entrance to the Nelson Mandela Children's hospital, just the sort of jaunty doorman you'd want to be greeted by were you an ailing child (i'd hope, they may run screaming) This is Blockhead, one of the sculptures featured in M.o.m.cy's recent exhibition, created by renowned sculptor and significant other Sybraman. The exhibition was fab and I'll be posting more pics from that shortly, I just have to muster up the energy.
'Hide in plain sight' I think the term is. Dr.Evil has obviously fallen on hard times and re-located to Lower Main St in Obs. No doubt a state-of-the-art security system lurks behind this unassuming grey door, but I was unable to test this theory as there was a large wrought iron fence in the way.
There were another two of these on the boot above the tail-lights. Such pride in one's Continent, that one would deface a Mercedes Benz with this nice shiny hood ornament. Seems logical to me, but surely if you were go to all this bother, you'd point it the other way? Guess there's no accounting for logic in downtown Observatory.
Water leaching down from the mountains through the fynbos, develops this curious weak tea colour as soon as it gathers in river form. Chuckie called it the coca-cola river and took to it like the proverbial poisson. This joyful abandon looked to me like it needed a watercolour wash to edge it over into hyper-reality. Just the merest hint y'know. Loved one and I preferred a bit of long distance parenting, sitting at the restaurant overlooking the river with a cold Savanna and the odd encouraging wave. The Milkwood serves an excellent seafood platter and Chuck was moved to announce his new favourite food was moules in wine. Where he gets such lofty tastes from I know not, pass the crayfish cracker there's a good boy, burp.
Yes well, the whole blogging from the phone thing was a lie. Mostly because I changed phones to an N93, (ta Fox, Silkies in the mail, etc) and didn't have time to load blog software on. As you can see by this image, the new camera on the new phone seems to function quite well, even if the subject matter wasn't exactly ecstatic about being immortalised. Still, he did manage to keep still long enough to be captured here, and frolicking in the coca cola river and various other places. (images and explanations to follow) I'm still wading through a thousand work mails, so haven't really the time to wax lyrical about the last three weeks in the glorious Cape. I will endeavour to make up for my tardiness and will shortly take you through a step-by-step guide to drinking and eating your way to an early grave.
As booth babes go, this affable charmer takes the orange sponge. Seems to have missed the memo that said 'all booth babes must be female, blonde and have perfected looking bored while smoking a cigarette.' At least he had the bored bit down pat, the Adidas/ Alpaca hat combo needs a little work though.
Plastic People in Shoreditch has a beast of a sound system, ideally suited to low-end basslines and skankin' beats. Kode 9 lays it down hard while the Spaceape spits out krewshall rhymes over the top and bodies liquify and explode all around. Fabulous to see Mwaff again after so long and Strcpskr and la Sonje. The single malt may have been taking things that little bit too far if my rampant shakes and uneasy stomach are anything to go by. Top-hole evening chaps, next stop Mamom's party, wayhey.
It's corny I know, but I love the negative setting on my mobile phone camera. It's amazing to think I can reverse any old image and give it a sense of otherworldy oddness at the flick of a switch. Who builds such a thing into a phone, who, who? Those crazy Finns, beavering away in their little country, churning out mobile madness by the bucketload, that's who. I just know that despite it's larger megapixie rate and bigger memory and endless add-ons, the N93 just isn't going to please me as much as this phone. Then again, perhaps I can get Nokia to pay me a million pounds to film the shadow my child's inflatable ring floating across a swimming pool. Nice one Gazza, nice one. I'm filming a picture of my ring as we speak for your consideration, if you can find the time to climb out of yours and watch it that is.
Oh to be a bit steadier when taking low light condition reflective shots. Nevermind, it has a quality to it, despite its out of focus nature. It took a while to recover from this evening and the day and night that followed it, but I feel better now after hanging with the Manchester Massive and meeting a thousand jolly rellies. Even managed to fit in a visit to a plague village, which is as fun as it sounds.
Look up in the middle of your Costa Cappucino, when seated at the Orange coffee shop on the bottom floor of their London operation in Paddington, and this is what you will see. It's a trippy place to do business. It's also a drippy place to do business. Condensation from the frantic Orange staff milling about swilling posh frappadoolies and furthering their Global empire, slowly gathers on the ceiling until it rains gently down on unsuspecting visitors. Our hosts found this terribly amusing, but I can't say being drenched in the condensed effluent of thousands of Orange drones really appeals to my sense of ha ha. I drank my coffee a lot quicker once I realised what that warm sensation was on the back of my head.
Irrepressible tykes such as these need no introduction, they are the joyful progeny of the Southfields massive and have a right to a posting all of their own. Much thanks to K n' J for fab food and abundant liquor. Also most pleasant to see DD and Clara Bow in residence. I fear this will be the last gathering we get away with outside, I'm glad we toasted the departing Summer in such grand style.
His arms beseeching infinity, His chiselled jaw set to stun. His acid green jump-suit fresh out of the box. He is the carwash Christ, perpetually poised with Holy Loofah in hand, ready to wash away the cares of the world. He's also a terrifying sight when you've been up all night and have just passed Him by as you stumble down the road towards King's Cross. I beg Him to wash away my demonic head-pain, but His is a higher calling and I have been judged and found wanting. Also, I don't have a car and obviously look a bit of a knob genuflecting before a day-glo mannequin. Humbled by his ascetic vigilance, and the stream of abuse from the fat gaffer inside who objects to my picture, I walk on.
Some people call him the space cowboy, I'm not exactly sure who, but un homage to Steve Miller never goes amiss. I call him Juju. The sort of juju you sprinkle in a line in front of your doorway to keep the demons away. Aha, but what then do you do about the demon you've now trapped inside your house, what then eh? Well, to start with, you feed him. A lot. He's fond of practically everything so knock up a feisty pasta and give him that. Allow him to wash this down with beer and whisky and port and gin. He will be momentarily stunned, but don't be fooled, his powers of recovery are er, demonic. You have to keep him benign by then playing him an assortment of music. He will respond well to anything smokable at this point, give it to him in regular doses until the early hours of the morning. Do not, under any circumstances, allow him to sleep. No amount of screaming pleading, drubbing and stabbing can rouse him once he has entered the arms of morpheus. This is a bad thing. His wife would agree. She did, a lot. Then again, it's nice to know even demons can be sent to purgatory.
Some bizarre ghosting happened in this pic which gives the impression PC's aura is ready for its close-up, even if PC isn't. The roof of the Bartlett Gallery gives good view, the Gherkin pushing up through railtracks and girders in the dim distance and trains cantering by every so often. Just have to insure Tortured Artist doesn't have one too many green bottles and dash off the edge in joyful dilerium. Yes, that trippy trail in the sky is one mofo full moon.
Inconceivable. Ha, by using this large word, I have cunningly shifted the text so it starts below the images rather than dribbling down the side of the left picture. No doubt there is some logical way of avoiding this happening, I just don't know what it is. Anyway, it's a great word immortalised by a great film, and should get an airing a lot more often.
When you're having so much goddam fun all the time, weekend after weekend, it's easy to forget. Forget that we went to a fabulous Jazz Cafe picnic in the grounds of a beautiful stately home. Forget we made a delicious margarita mix and brought it along in a handy dispenser. Forget the jolly friends, the happy crowds, the monkey's wedding, the all encompassing goddam fun we had. I'm remembering it now, with a little prompting from GWonder (doll). Curiously enough, while the lady on the left, the lovely Melanie, has lingered long in my mind, I seem to have misplaced the lady on the right. Perhaps one needs to see a face. Ass recognition is a fine art I never quite mastered (Yes Spencer, that ass). Other things happened on this day. A gentleman called Dr.Syntax told us a salty tale of his encounters with humankind, he 'layed it down a cappella stylee' I think the kids might call it. We lay down on our picnic mat and chortled, our Waitrose packets whirling about our heads. Zero 7 made us all shake uncontrollably. Jose Gonzalez made us stop shaking and stroke our beards instead. Then we went home, a lot, home and home and by Christ are we still walking where's the fugging station, oh thank Gawd a bus, where are you, you're where? We wait for you, and wait and wait oh no I am going to cry I lie down on the ground just kick me please where are they now? Ah, here they are, super. Then we slept.
There is an extremely inebriated man sitting opposite me on the train to Hove. He is at that amiably drunk potentially belligerent stage, chatting randomly to the terrified Chinese couple next to him until I turn up and they do a runner. He takes his time to engage, leering at the cover of my music magazine and making lip smacking noises. Eventually I'm forced to fix him with a gimlet eye. 'Sheza bitof awright' he mumbles, jabbing a pudgy digit at the Ibiza babe frolicking on the front of Mixmag. I manipulate some facial muscles so my lips turn up at the edges, but the utter insincerity of this grimace fails to put him off. God shines down on me when he begins a lengthy treatise on the unsung merits of Rod Stewart and the Faces, letting slip that he's got all their records at his squalid hovel in Hastings. I politely point out he is sitting in the wrong set of carriages for Hastings and is on his way to Hove if he remains in his seat. Eyes bulging, he frantically grabs his can of Tennants and salty KPs and dashes for the front of the train. I bathe in the tangible waves of good will directed at me from the rest of my fellow passengers, until Hove, er, hoves in sight.
Peeping Tom the film that destroyed the career of respected British Director, Michael Powell, was compulsory viewing in our film course at Uni. This image instantly transports me back to the icy cold projector room of the journ department at Rhodes. Our breath solidifying before our us, we huddled together for warmth while creepy Carl Boehm roamed the seedy underbelly of Sixties Soho (can I say 'Boehm roamed'? guess I just did) The subjects of his perverted desires? Disfigured prostitutes. His depraved quest? To capture on film the purest moment of abject fear as his victim realised they were about to be skewered on one of the sharpened legs of his tripod (no Spencer, not that tripod, though no doubt the comparison was intentional) Perhaps it was the combination of sub-zero tempratures and smuggled-in Tassenburg Red, but this film scared the living shies out of us. So now I go and take this weird picture and it all comes flooding back, aaaaaaahh, I hate Tassies!
Gawd, tempis really fugits when you're having fun, seems like seconds ago I was sweating my ass off in Orlando. This place is a shies-hole of epic proportions. It's reclaimed swampland, overrun with cheap housing and toytown municipal buildings. It exists to serve the multiple evils of Disneyworld, Universal Studios, Seaworld and various other lesser but still diabolical theme parks. It is also one of the leading convention areas in the US, which is why I was standing around with Mz.P for three days, smiling and nodding at corporate Amerikakaka. I was most happy to return home from this chore, content in the nollige that the automotive industry now has a clear understanding of what my mobile phone operating system company does. OK, perhaps 'clear' is pushing it a bit.
