Billsworth's Blog

WGRP WTF?

2011-09-23T06:30:00.001-07:00

This is an odd one. Suddenly appeared on a wall near our house. Anyone know what it stands for? Can't find any obvious reference to it. Who is this poor lad? No doubt I will post this and one of the four people who may still be glancing at my blog from time to time will roar with larffter and say,

"you idiot, this is blatantly the work of infamous graf terrorists 'World Graffiti Rebels Group' and this is their hangdog mascot 'wifebeater willy', everyone knows that!"

Fine, I await humiliation, do your worst.

B

To infinity and bend

2011-09-17T08:01:00.001-07:00

So it came to pass that chuffy didst gird his substantial loins and abscond for the foggy climes of San Frandisco. To send him off in a suitably broken state, we gathered at the Goat for a few (dozen) quiet ones. Why is it that these evenings inevitably deteriorate into calamitous camera phone action. The picture you see here is a failed attempt to capture the essential essence of chuff and porkhead's lifelong bromance, but has sadly turned out looking like a rejected still from Simon and Garfunkel's little known 'Prat Sandwich' album. No matter, with a good showing from the zimmers and the lovely L, we made a hearty fist of it; despite pork hurling JD and coke over 'the Stath' who appeared to have fallen on hard times and was manning the door. He kindly avoided killing us all horribly with a bar mat, but did ask us to leave, which was fine considering they had shut off all the lights and we were the last ones there.

All the best Chuffy, we'll have to do it all again on your side.

Billsworth

Blogger app, hurrah

2011-09-09T01:08:00.001-07:00

So, obviously my blog action has fallen off dramatically. Full time employment, extremely mobile child, great tiredness, the excuses pile up. The real reason for my failure was that there was no functional iPhone blogger app available, which would allow me to extend the reach of this insidious device even further.

All that has changed.

Billsworth

When you're smiling...

2010-10-23T03:20:00.000-07:00

The evolution of a smile. Not too sure at first, but as we're sporting our particularly groovy roboten t-shirt, it matters not. Then we put a little more effort into it, managing this rather coy look in the middle. Bubbling over into a full on wide mouthed frog. We're still working on a chuckle, which he seems to manage no problem when he's fast asleep. Hard to describe how disturbing it is, when you've just finished the 12 o'clock dream feed and the boy is fast asleep in your arms. Suddenly, his angelic visage changes as the demon takes possession and he lets out the truly weirdest larf "he he he he." Like he's just released Bond into the shark pool. Chilling.

B

Brother in arms

2010-10-04T06:37:00.000-07:00

Ah bless, the two brothers together for the first time. Never mind big bro looks like he has a giant melonheed, it obviously proved amusing to little bro. With the arrival of Mamabear and Chucky, things got busy around these parts, but we all managed to cope pretty well and it was very nice to have all my sons under one roof. A mad week was had by all, which included the London Eye, Hever Castle, the Science Museum, Hamleys and er, Argos. The last proving to be the most exciting of all as it was where a shiny red PSP was purchased, much to the joy of Chuck.

I must admit to being pleasantly surprised by the Science Museum, which has finally managed to stagger into the 21st century with a load of very groovy interactive exhibits all centred around the intriguing question 'Who am I?' The disturbing image at the top is my haggard visage, retro-fitted to show me as a baby, though for my Mother's sake, I hope I didn't come out with a five o'clock shadow. Thermal imaging cameras, gene splicing, build your own hydrogen bomb, it was all there. A far cry from the wobbly plastic and ancient videos from the seventies that filled the place when I visited five years ago.

I also highly recommend Hever Castle if you have an over-active child, as they have fantastic gardens with two mazes, a lake and a very cool adventure playground, complete with what we Zimbabweans know fondly as a 'fufi slide.' (no, this isn't it, more of an example) The castle itself is bulging at the seams with medieval goodness and has the added 'horrible histories' factor of being Ann Boleyn's childhood country pad, before she went off with Henry VIII and got chopped.

Now, as we sink inexorably into the slough of despond that is Winter, while Chucky revels in the blossoming jacarandas and afternoon storms back in good old Pretoria, it's time to turn our sorry thorts to the fact that there are only 82 shopping days till Chrissie, huzzah! *sob*.

B

2, is the magic number

2010-09-22T07:25:00.000-07:00

On entering the third hour of our inaugural journey to Manchester with young Tboy, having only just made it onto the M25 (and even then into a giant queue rather than actually going anywhere) we began to suspect all would not be well. Eight hours later, our suspicions were confirmed. Probably best not to dwell on the wailing and the lamentation and yes I am talking mostly about myself, though he did make his opinions on the Hammersmith road works, M25 congestion, M1 road works, M6 accident that wasn't an accident and sundry queuing in a sodden nappy, very clearly felt. It was with a measure of relief that we arrived at SC/G's new gaff and a hearty chigger of Wolf Blass. Ta to the Holl'ster for the loan of her teen boudoir and to the little man for remaining remarkably composed, all things considered.

On Saturday, the G Posse assembled en masse for CG's second birthday, and as you can see above, our hostess took everything from posing artfully with bday cake, to looking swaive in a purple wig, well in her diminutive stride. This was the first gathering of all the grandchildren together under one roof, which was a photo-call if ever there was one. Alas, poor Tboy had no choice but to be ignominiously propped up in the corner by his Uncle M, but at least he was looking at the camera. We were fed supremely well and kept thoroughly entertained by our Social Events rep, SC/G; she's a good'n she is, a real keeper!

All too soon we were back on the road and another mammoth journey for our weary little soldier. Fortunately for us, Uncle D had versed us in the ways of 'shhpatting' and as soon as we heard any niggling, we immediately shhpatted all over him and he was off in the arms of Morpheus in no time. (This is a lie) Shhpatting is actually impossible to do without hyperventilating and passing out on top of your child, so while you may utilize it as a method of putting yourself to sleep, the jury is still out as to its efficacy in lulling a child into slumber. So stick that in your shhpat n' smoke it, Child Whisperer!

B

Six week smile?

2010-09-07T05:04:00.001-07:00

Yes well, unfortunately, said smile seems to be in response to some dark and devious somnolent thought. We've yet to see any reaction to Papa's inane gurning, though newbie that I am, I continue to be fooled by the smile/defecate interface. We continue then, to receive the Soulseeker Stare (tm) that seems to look into your primal core and find it wanting. Technically, tomorrow is six weeks, so he has a day to perfect his finest smirk, before Daddy turns his gurning dial up to Full Idiot.

Sadly, poor wean has succumbed to a nasty chest infection, care of some unknown entity (JG coffcoffcoff!) leaving him with the kind of bronchial hack one normally associates with a fifty-a-day Woodbine habit. This has added to his already exotic and extensive repertoire of alien, animal and indeed, alien animal noises with which he regales us throughout the night. I should build a hide out of muslin and soiled diapers in the corner of the room and observe him undetected, but that would be silly, not to mention deeply unpleasant.

Next week we will attempt our first cross country sojourn mit baby, to introduce him to his cousins. I am confidant this will all go without a hitch, no really!

B

Toboy

2010-08-09T11:35:00.001-07:00

Finally, a suitable replacement for those endless kitteh shots, endless Toby shots! Billsworth comes alive again in the interests of showcasing this marvel of modern science, the incredible Frozen Boy. Gasp in wonder as he fires radio active matter from his nether regions. Gaze in awe at his unwavering Frosty Stare (tm). Try helplessly to resist making silly cooing 'aaah' noises when you lay eyes on his ickle pretty mouth. Reel in horror when said mouth regurgitates a boobful of Mother's Own Cottage Cheese (patent pending) all down your neck.

No matter. The little man, he is most lovely. I will only send him down the mines if I find myself suddenly out of wor...oh yeah.

B

Welleh wan tu

2010-03-03T03:06:00.000-08:00

Aah dahlings! Mwah to you all from London Fashion Week and the Spring Collection of Nathan Jenden, former CD for DVF and more famously, Events Queen's brother-in-law. One has so little time between visiting the job centre, playing badminton and baking cakes, but one just had to attend this 'eminently wearable' show, as the bloggerati described it. I know being wearable isn't that high on the list of 'things to be' at your average haute couture showing, but judging by the ooh/aaah level, there was a lot in this collection that EQ would quite happily have run off with. I hadn't realised though, just how much of a cattle market these events were. As soon as the last tribal house beat faded out and our erstwhile designer had popped his head out the back for some love, the crowd(TM) made a crazed dash for the exits and the next showing of megabucks flimflammery across town. What a crowd though, every possible pret-a-porter cliche was there in full effect. Skinny jeaned, big scarved fashion students with sticky-uppy hair, wannabe - zero models and fawning clothes fans hoping to touch the hem of DVF's frock as she swished by. Sadly for them, DVF wasn't actually wearing any form of hem, but was instead working a hideous pair of burnt orange, leopard print leggings. Tres fashionable but so much harder to surreptitiously fondle. After a mwah frenzy backstage, we headed off to a local and one too many bottles of Chilean plonk.

After this action packed day, you'd think a rest would be in order, but no, it was off to the Manchester Massive for the weekend, via a fleeting pitstop in the 'Pool. Good to se Le Sonje so soon after her departure for Copers and what better way to celebrate our reunion, than with a night of African Soul rebellion. The Liverpool Philharmonic Hall has a sort of dilapidated seventies kitsch feel to it which conjured up disturbing flashbacks of the Bulawayo Philharmonic Hall and smoking dope in the rafters with friend Helmut, just before he went on to do his slightly erratic trumpet solo. As Loved One and I had spent most of the day driving, we struggled to maintain interest in any of the performances, least of all the Khalahari Surfers who hadn't received the memo that Neslon had been set free a while ago and actually, things were progressing quite a bit in SA so cheer up and play a real tune.

No rest for the pregnant though and we were up with the larks and off to Altrincham and the first of many familial stopovers. Lovely to see y'all again, I really think we need to try stretch these visits over at least four days, we're visiting for two now y'know.

W

The gaudy seed-bearer strikes again

2010-02-02T08:39:00.000-08:00

Not often you get to look at your baby as a bunch of cells, but here we have Grandnegie 2.0 (or Carnage 2.0, whichever you deem more appropriate) as both a wee blastocyst and a more progressive, yet still rather insubstantial 12 week old. Mother and child are in fine fettle (whatever that may be) and father to be is trying not to panic.

Aaaaaaaah panic!

B

Eat this 2010

2010-01-20T04:16:00.000-08:00

The year is barely born but we're not going to succumb to subzero temperatures and the January Blues. It takes more than a head cold and unemployment to keep us down, oh yes. To the Russian Bar then in Darkest Dalston, top secret late night techno pit. There's little threat of anyone actually being there to hear us play, but in stark contrast to DJ Sonje's measly two CDs, I have brought enough music to play out the next Millennium. Nervous, Moi? OK yes, I'm a little bruised from the last time I played, over a year ago, when a very drunken man screamed 'what the f**k is this shit' in my face. Who knew the crowd wanted 70's disco rather than modeselektor, who knew? So it is with minor trepidation that I head out with Sonje, not helped at all by her super efficient two CD selection.

True to form tho, there is but a lone table of people in the whole place and a man behind the decks whom we later ascertain is some sort of manager, laying down some ersatz house hell. Our hosts, authentic, real and indeed, genuine DJ chappies Simon n' Matt from We make music, manage to hoof DJ Dire off the decks and Sonje steps up. By this time a small posse of Dalstonites have gathered and golly but I'm actually starting to relax and dare I say it, have fun. Sonje beats the crowdette with some hardy bangers, despite being thrown into the deep end somewhat with having to navigate the technological minefield that is the CDJ 1000. Bolstered with the confidence that only comes from playing in front of friends (and the odd lager) I tag her and take up arms. It is here that a curious thing happens. With the degree of total control the 1000s give you, you really needn't worry about such trivial things as beat matching, they do it all for you. For the first time in years, I can concentrate on the tunes. I'm racking things up well ahead of time, I'm playing things I've never played before - bejabbers, I'm enjoying myself and people are whooping! Granted it's just Margo L whooping, but I care not, a whoop's a whoop. This is the best set I've played possibly ever, and I'm wired to the gills when Matt eventually prises my fingers from the decks and I step down.

Simon and Matt play brilliantly of course and I'm humbled by Simon's mastery of the machinery. That said, I'm really not concerned that I'm not looping madly and filtering and utilising the multiple effects and tricks that the 1000s are capable of. It's about the banging, it always has been.

B

Christmastising - Part 2

2010-01-14T07:29:00.001-08:00

Chrissie Day, Callooh, callay! Mr and Mrs. Le Grandbutte have been tasked with preparing the Christmas feast according to some ancient tradition that I dare not question. In an act of low cunning, the ham ladies cook the ham the day before and leave it strategically placed next to the pre-prepared turkey, complete with virtually identical tin foil covering. As it was now about -4 outside, the boot of the Freelander had taken on duties as an outdoor larder and this was where both ham and turkey had been stored. It's -4 then, maybe even less at six in the morning when chrissie cooking began. You're not going to linger are you? You're going to grab the nearest tin foil covered roasting tin and head for the house as quickly as possible. After two hours in what was admittedly a rather luke warm oven, the ham was unceremoniously removed and replaced with the turkey and lunch was back on track.

As Santa ( the real one, not that perverted tramp from the train) had made an appearance the night before (some of my finest work!) the living room was chocka with pressies and our junior citizens were near frenzied with joy. After some hand-to-hand combat, teen queen joined the pressie line and one by one, the youth were led in to fall upon the gleaming boxes with rabid delight. Lunch kicked off at around four, which is pretty standard Christmas Day eating time as far as I'm concerned, and it was indeed, most delicious. That evening we had some remarkably underwhelming fireworks and tried to float a few Chinese lanterns. Not something that should be attempted in either sub-zero temperatures or a heavily wooded area, or both. Having been elected Entertainments Reps, Loved One and I had purchased Britain's Got Talent - the board game, in a moment of desperation. God bless 'em though, the whole family dived in with remarkable enthusiasm and very little discernible talent, and much larffter and bad dancing ensued. (Apologies to Mick Jagger)

Boxing Day saw a select few take to the hills for a brisk walk and a cheeky pint at a handy freehouse that popped up out of nowhere. The entertainments team had managed to convince various naysayers in the crowd that a murder mystery was the way to go for the last evening's frivolity. True to form, all dressed up brilliantly and despite my own secret reservations, the whole thing was thoroughly enjoyable. I may of course have immersed myself a little too deeply in the role of demented Gestapo agent, Otto von Pinkwurst, but you know, you can take the boy out of the theatre etc.

So there you have it, Chrissie 09. Many thanks must go to KG and JG senior for their near mythical spreadsheet skills, DG for his outstanding role as Head of Cheese and to everyone else for cooking and drinking and larffing it up good. Happy New Year to all!

B

Christmastising Part 1

2010-01-14T05:43:00.001-08:00

It seems like a dim distant memory now, but Christmas did actually take place, and I was actually there. As mentioned before, the so-called festive season occupies its own unique niche in the time/space continuum; managing to simultaneously be interminably plodding and over in a flash.

Our arrival in Derbyshire and Turpins Cottage was relatively painless thanks to the marvel of GPS and clear roads. While a lot of snow had fallen, this was hardly the arctic blizzard predicted by the met office doomsayers, who said we wouldn't get two metres past our front door. The Le Grandbutte Massive were almost in full effect but for lower middle sibling and family. After tottering up some lethal snowbound stairs, we were welcomed into the bosom of the hearth and fed a sumptuous ahem, Chinese takeaway. Our ground floor room was a double-edged sword; far from the madding crowd and with its own en-suite ablutions, but with only a wall of glass between us and the increasingly frigid night air. Sleeping in your dressing gown and scarf might seem fun if you're five years old but loses its appeal when one hits forty. We survived the night but had no choice but to procure a heater if we were to make it through the next five days with all our extremities intact.

With the arrival of lower middle son the next morning our party was complete - 11 adults, check. 1 teen, moody, check. 3 kinders, off their heads with excitement, check. 3 infants, cute, check, and one jaunty Labrador - Christmas could officially begin. Actually, with the arrival of Sainburys, Christmas could officially begin, bringing as they did most of the food and booze right to our door. As we were first up for cooking duties, we had armed ourselves the week before with smoked keilbasa and cannellini beans to create our state of the art Polish Sausage stew, famous throughout the, er, room. No mean feat cooking for the ravenous hordes, though fortunately the three under twos weren't exactly sausage fans and left us enough for seconds.

Day three was one of those days that slipped in time.I recall very tasty spag bog for dinner and that's about it. Some went walking, some went sledging, some went shopping, some had another Boddingtons, perhaps that some was me.

Day four and Chrissie Eve huzzah! As one of our junior members was fixated with trains, the entire clan had been booked aboard the Santa Express, leaving from the appropriately named station of Butterley. The Thomas rip-off you see above was our iron steed, and despite some blind leading the blind navigation, we managed to make it in time...for the session after the one we were booked for. No matter, we're here now, let's not hurl abuse at DG for his inability to read a very large sign that the rest of us saw, all aboard, let the magic begin! Hmmm, someone appeared to have left the magic at home as we clambered onto this dilapidated throwback to a bygone era and made our way to the front carriage. (by the bar, naturally) The old girl wheezed into life and crawled out of the station as we sipped our complimentary Baileys dinkies and gummed our complementary Iceland mince pies. Never mind, soon we'd be flying down the tracks, marvelling at the glorious winter wonderland flashing past our windows, reveling in the glory of this noble engine's steam powered majes... oh, we appear to have stopped about 2 minutes outside the station, curious. After some furtive banging and clanging, we saw Thomas chuffing past us in the other direction and came to the sad conclusion that this was the sum total of the Santa Express. A plod four hundred metres out of one end of the station, an uncoupling, recoupling, then a short run out the other end of the station, woo and indeed, hoo. Neeeeverrrr mindddd, there was still a visit to Santa, hurrah, huzzah! OK kids, are you ready to see Santa? Here he is!! Yes, he smells a little like Old Speckled Hen, chip fat and the bitter stench of despair, but it's Santa! I say Santa, shouldn't you have the wee kiddie on your knee and not his Mother? Steady on Santa old boy, that's my wife. Oi Santa, do you want a punch in the..gerrorf...oof.. get himm...ouch...smack.

After a jolly visit with Santa on his marvelous express, we head back through the snow for Chrissie eve, delicious Beef Casserole and a rousing game of trivial pursuit. This game dwells in that same slow, terminally dull part of time/space In fact, it rules it with a leaden, ponderous fist. After three years in the Trivialpersuitosphere, we eventually escape and hit the fridge, our brains numb with trivia. To be continued...

I'll give you ho ho ho

2009-11-30T06:43:00.000-08:00

I'm afraid. Christmas lists and mails are flying thick and fast and the gorge-fest that is The Season to be Jolly (tm) rapidly approaches. In-depth discussions clog my gmail, about cheese and beer and breakfast and who's cooking what on which night. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for planning ahead, especially when you're dealing with a multiplicity of mouths to feed and childers to entertain. It's just that it all happens so quickly this Christmas thing and then before you know it you're staring into the frozen abyss of January, the ghostly taste of brandy butter lingering on your tongue.

Perhaps it's the cold and the dark nights that seem to dramatically accelerate the hours (duh William, ya think?) but Christmas in Africa seemed to drag on interminably. The day itself lasted forever. Up with the larks, or in our case, hoopoes, tapping away frantically (no Spencer, not that sort of tapping away) at the dead elms lining our property. (dutch elm disease, tis a bitch) We'd stretch our toes down to the ends of our beds to provoke a delicious rustling from the sack/pillow case of wonderful things nestled there. From that point on it was impossible to sleep. We'd drag on our Sunday finery and make the obligatory trip to our local church to drone some ghastly hymns and shake sweaty paws. In the space of minutes the thermometer would rise dramatically, hats would wilt, ties loosen and all would eye the door with the sort of fervor our Rev could only dream of. Eventually it was off with the nylon trousers/school shirt combo and on with the boxers and the new Willie Worm t-shirt santa/mater had scored me. Foodandpresentsandfoodandmadgameofcricketonthelawn before an afternoon lull to regain our strength. Hopeless really as it is now 40 degrees C and all have been felled by a mighty fist of heat. Time is molasses as the children gather at the shallow end of the pool, cramming watermelon and mangoes into the last available crevices in their bodies and praying for hot fat beads of rain to end their suffering.

Naturally I am expecting something similar in Fumbuckshire or wherever we are gathering (where are we gathering?) except for the bit about heat and perhaps, watermelons. As entertainment rep, I'll be taking my duties very seriously, so all aboard the er fun bus, Chrissie is upon us.

B

Roboten feel no pian

2009-11-12T07:12:00.000-08:00

Soon they will rise, soon. In the meantime I will have to make my own banana loaf.

I lack coordination. I can walk and tie my shoelaces and navigate the mean streets of Londres with the best of them, but lose concentration for a second...

I walk into things all the time; door frames have a mysterious magnetic pull and once I've actually made it through, the door-handle will inevitably catch on my shirt and wrench me backwards. I hit my head on cupboards, cut myself, burn myself, crunch my elbows into mantelpieces and stab my eyes with teaspoons. The kitchen is a deathtrap for me and baking, my new temporary hobby, is a sad lesson in self-harm every time I reach for the Hummingbird.

While being blessed with my Father's genetic GPS which allows me to navigate the most confusing city and find my way back to my hotel with nary a glance of the map, I seem incapable of being able to read a recipe. I'm not sure why I equate these two things, I just don't want people to get the impression I'm a complete moron. A work in progress perhaps. My first foray into baking was my Mother's lemon drizzle cake recipe, written out for me on a scrubby piece of paper. Granted I misread 3oz of orange juice as 30, but what idiot would think the sloppy mess I'd dutifully poured into a cake tin was in any way the right consistency for producing a delightful sponge. The resulting lemon tart was perfectly edible though, but had seeped out of the cake tin and all over the baking tins in the draw below the oven. I'd regard this as a failure.

Undaunted I took to the aforementioned Hummingbird bakery book and attempted a banana loaf. I dropped boiling butter on the floor, flicked a muddy arc of batter across the kitchen wall and broke one of the unbreakable measuring spoons. Still, I was fairly pleased with the mush I put in the oven, despite having the niggling feeling it still wasn't quite the right density. This feeling turned to certainty when I noticed a bowl full of flour still sitting on the work surface. So let's be clear about this, I'm baking here, and I forgot to add flour.

The bananas are ripening, I've acquired a bigger mixing bowl, the signs are good. Hold off on that robot Loved One, I think I've got this cake thing beat. (ahem)

B

Stadtkind

2009-11-03T06:57:00.001-08:00

Berlin greets me with a cold wet smack in the face as I head down towards the U-Bahn and Rathaus Neukölln (or Rat-house Newcolon as I like to think of it), location of Cruiser's new flat. This town oozes coolness and kultcha from every pore. Walls and doorways are splattered with street art and stickers promoting a hundred different parties, exhibitions and groovy happenings. There are ramshackle bars on every corner; scaffy, makeshift holes-in-the-wall with minimal decoration and minimal beats scratching out of some crappy sound system in the corner. Cruiser and I attempt a quiet first evening by going on a crawl of these local sprechen, erm, easies. Alas, Berlin has chosen to not only ignore the smoking ban, but carry on as if it were never implemented in the first place. By bar 3 I've got that old familiar carcinogenic reek about me and our quiet evening is rapidly spiraling down the neck of a never-ending bottle of beer.

Dawn breaks around 11 and despite some healthy muesli action and a hearty interface of apple, carrot and ginger, an air of fragility pervades our brains. We make a half-hearted attempt at shopping, but as a whole new brace of adventures stretch ahead of us tonight we opt for a strategic nap instead. Fortunately Berlin only comes alive around twelve at night, so we have time to recover, eat a crap burger and hang in a gay co-operative for a glass of cidre, before it's off to the Nightmare Party. This gig takes place in what was once a youth indoctrination centre, a venue which seems to have happily swapped one form of brainwashing for another. There's a DJ in every corner and the place gradually fills with louche kinders embracing the Halloween vibe in a variety of blood soaked costumes. I'm sure I saw a Zombie Nazi from Dead Snow and there's quite a heartening air of indifference the kids show towards this whole period of their history. They've moved on even if no one else has.

Much banging takes place and I'm pleasantly surprised by how good I feel come six o'clock, having abstained from drinking the whole night. It's crazy I know, but you can actually go out and not drink, who would have thort it?

Saturday evening we devote to the Illustrative 09, an exhibition of the finest graphics and illustration Berlin has to offer. I'll post a flickr link of this exhibition shortly. Another cool venue and the usual hit and miss of design; some pieces were brilliant, others looked like poor course work from some third year art class. We headed back home to cook a jolly dinner for Heinz 57 and Clarabow and managed to hit the sack before one, making the ghastly pain of rising at six to get to the airport a little more bearable.

Those of you in London on Sunday may have noticed it was quite windy. Now imagine being in a weenie Easyjet airplane attempting to land at Gatwick. We are thrown about violently as the pilot is forced to do an emergency abort of his first approach. He comes in slower the second time, but the entire craft is yawing and bouncing from side to side and there is much weeping and lamentation from all. We finally break cloud cover and appear to be approaching the runway sideways. The lamentation level increases dramatically. The pilot wrenches us around at the last minute and we skip and slide to an eventual juddering stop. A brief silence ensues before everyone bursts into relieved applause. Without a doubt the most disturbing air experience I've ever had.

Muchos gracias to the Cruiser, your hospitality knows no bounds. London, it's good to be back (in one piece).

B

Green Day

2009-10-25T09:07:00.001-07:00

Taking a turn around Tony's Tent, or, as it is now known, the O2 Arena, one is reminded yet again of the ginormous waste of money and effort this big top acid trip represents. That it has become the weekend venue of choice for marauding bands of East End slappahs bent on alcoholic annihilation, seems only fitting. Especially when you consider the idea for building it could only have been conceived at the end of a particularly ruinous and depraved New Labour drinkathon.

No matter. We are here now, T Psych and I, to immerse ourselves in the three chord clatter of California punk puppies, Green Day. By puppies of course, I mean grizzled hounds. Perhaps out of denial of my own advancing years, it hadn't really dawned on me how long this band has actually been around. Frontman Billie Joe Armstrong soon puts me straight as he dashes across the stage like a demented Emo Pixie yelling,

'We've been doing this for fucking twenty years now, and this shit never grows old.'

Ye Gods, twenty years! I fumble for my fisherman's friends and turn down my hearing aid as the first single off the new album that sounds like the last single off the previous album, jangles into life. Bless his skull n' cross-bone socks though, Billie Joe sure knows how to please his demographic. He's constantly pulling up kohl eyed kiddies from the front row, taking pictures of them, encouraging them to stage dive and generally treating the whole thing like the end of season talent show at Butlins. He even comes over all lay preacher at one point, demanding children be brought before him so he can lay hands on them in some profound metaphorical way that possibly related to the song he was singing, but utterly went over my head and probably those of a number of slightly disturbed parents too.

In a final act of tweenie fan heaven, he calls on any young drummers, guitarists and bass players to show themselves, then selects three budding musos to take over from Tre Cool, Mike Dirnt and the other dude playing guitar whose name eludes me. Never has a child been so gifted from on high as BJ sing along over their brave efforts and every adult in the room go' Ah bless.'

T Psych has staggered back with four more pints thank G and we are able to reinforce ourselves for the inevitable encore. Or encores I should say, as the greedy buggers have the cheek to go off and on twice. This is a stoning offense in my book, but Lo, all is forgiven as BJ take to his acoustic and do a soopa medley of 'Time of your life/ When September ends', reducing all to blubbering wrecks, tho perhaps that was my distended bladder placing pressure on my eyeballs.

We're finally allowed to leave the building after being told we are a much better audience than any American one, which seems a tad of a betrayal but never mind. A cheeky beer/depissing in one of the many faceless drink o' mats residing under this tatty canvas, then it's the last tube home for us.

Ta muchly to T Psych for his great generosity and ebullient company, perhaps just the one bottle of Sake next time, we have been doing this shit for twenty years after all.

B

Jobs I could do Part 1

2009-10-23T05:14:00.000-07:00

Now, this looks like the sort of gainful employment I should be seeking out. Taking in the noonday sun, a band of panting 'best friends' round my ankles, the promise of a jolly gambol on Clapham Common ahead of us. With an enterprising spirit and lots of 'boggle' bags, (as the Wild Australian Boy used to call what I prefer thinking of as 'shit sacks') I could soon become the Barbara Woodhouse of the South.

Unfortunately, I see it all going wrong very quickly. Being given responsibility for someone's pet in this country is right up there with watering their plants or weeding their allotment; you don't take the task lightly. If it was their kids you were coddling, sure, you can slack off a bit, but mess with precious little Colin's walkies...

I'd cope for the first week or so, but repetitive, inane jobs atrophy my little brain, causing it to wander into subversive territory quite quickly. I'd then become obsessed with the idea of attaching micro-cameras to each animal and streaming these collar-cams live to the web. 'Dog days of our lives' would soon develop an audience of millions. People would jump from collar to collar, goggling away at unexpurgated views of tedious and feral British life, as seen through the eyes of the one creature they all thought they could trust. The outcry would echo across the azure fields and brute retribution of the tar and feathers variety would follow swiftly. Worse yet, it would be back to the old job centre for me (after a short stretch in chookie).

Fine, let's tick that one off the list.

B

It will have blog they say, blog will have blog

2009-10-20T08:56:00.001-07:00

No need for fanfare, or any form of ticker-tape parade, Billsworth is back. Slightly revamped and sporting a jaunty new cap, the blog that never really gave much, returns to serve up even less, as it regales you with tales of daring-do from the world of the employmently (and perhaps grammatically) challenged.

Not being one to make a fuss, I've chosen this astounding piece of kitchen sink realism to be the first new image to grace these pages. That said, it is an elegant lesson in plastique minimalism which brings a smile to mien fleshy facial protuberances, every time I look at it. uPVC is a ubiquitous beast that many an impoverished homeowner has been forced to invest in due to the crippling cost of double glazed wooden sashes, but dammit it all, I think it looks good. Its twin went into our en-suite bathroom, and new doors now grace the rear entrance and the balcony. I've had the Mondrian hung in the West Wing and faithful Farnsworth is polishing the Buconium chandelier in the Bassoon Hall as we speak.

Being as I am, a man of enforced leisure, I get to dip my toe, and in some cases my entire body, into the dark and murky waters of the Day Borne Dead (TM). Those that wander listlessly through streets and supermarket isles during the daylight hours, desperately throttling time, while time gently and methodically chokes them back. I could of course slide into utter catatonia by suckling on the cankered narcotic teat of day-time telly, but this is an end of days activity; a point (I'm fairly sure) I haven't reached just yet.

So instead, I shall blog. Who knows, perhaps the novel everyone keeps banging on about, lurking dormant in some primordial recess of my brain, will lurch and stumble into action. Hell, it sure beats watching Jeremy Kyle.

Follow the light, the light will guide you

2009-01-09T07:44:00.000-08:00

The only way is up, baby, as Yazz once said and how right she was. As this is a new year and new beginnings, I'm returning to this whole blogging business with a new attitude. An attitude of utter indifference. Y'all just have to accept that (all six of you).

I'll try be more diligent, but really, it's not easy, this thing requires perseverance, and frankly I'm slightly distracted at the moment. Let's take this slowly shall we?

B

If it's brown...

2008-10-31T04:48:00.001-07:00

For those of you who think most modern art adds up to a big ole' pile o' poo, here's a wall of it to confirm your worst fears. On the opposite wall was every meal over a six month period that resulted in the archive of excrement you see above. Is it art? What do I know for shizz. Needless to say, Room 101 was a resounding success and hats off to ML for all her hard work and fantastic yellow mini-skirt.

B

Cubism

2008-10-15T10:58:00.001-07:00

Nothing like turning around an executive board freebie in record time. This crystal cube, complete with master code running all around it, is made up of 27 little cubes, all branded with individual board member's company names. The concept being our code has been represented by a cube for the last two years, they all collaborated to create the code, and now they get to take a piece away at the end of their slap-up meal, ah bless. So it's a bit hokey, but not bad considering we're in the middle of our busiest show ever and really didn't have time to be fiddling about with giveaways for a bunch of individuals who could collectively buy most of Africa, but there you go.

W

Crazy Bear

2008-10-14T10:01:00.001-07:00

Crazy Bear has very interesting toilets. It has great food and nice booths you can hang in and attracts lots of bootiful people, but mostly it has loos that a) you can't find and b) you can't get out of. They also allow for some dramatic, if slightly hammer house, self portraits.

B

Aaah Sienna

2008-10-09T07:58:00.001-07:00

OK, so about 10kms outside Sienna actually, but 'Aaah Sovicille' doesn't quite have the same ring to it. The Wild Australian Boy wet his second baby's head in grand style, shipping out family and friends to a 13th century Tuscan castle and filling them with champagne purchased a few days earlier in Champagne central. The route to the Champagne region was a speedy one, pushing Vorsprung Durch Technik to its limits and eventually resulting in a shredded sports radial on the journey back. We arrived at Pisa airport with time to spare to pick up the star of the show and after a minor sense of humour failure, I was behind the wheel of a Fiat Anon and heading down the Fi Pi Li (Firenze Piza Linovo). Having only ever driven a left hand drive car once (and only then around the block), hitting an Italian highway at rush hour was a baptism of fire, make no mistake. Combining the wrong side of both road and driving position with utterly incomprehensible signposting leads to great panic, but we eventually made it to the old castello and the first magnum of the week.

Five days of pasta, pizza, red wine and getting repeatedly lost within a 12km radius followed. We visited the ancient Papal hideaway of Vitterbo, which wasn't exactly the rustic village we were expecting and walked the cobbled byways of San Gimignano once again, to relive the first magic moments of our fledgling relationship, ah bless!

All in all, a jolly jaunt, but now my liver and stomach must rest, at least until the weekend, or Friday, or later this afternoon.

B

CEG

2008-09-25T06:00:00.001-07:00

Ah so small. Little CEG has joined the hurly burly of Loved One's clan, but like her parents, remains blissfully serene and remarkably relaxed. Which cannot be said for Loved One and myself as we dash from new born to High School Musical party to Marks n' Sparks to Kupahville, to 30th birthday tapas to house party to bed to rise to food tasting to champagne to train to bed. We're pondering a more extensive sojourn in the future to ease the frantic pace of these visitations, but that won't be happening just yet.

Tomorrow begins the Lad's road trip to the ferry to Dunkirk to the Champagne district to Lake Como and then off for a week to some Tuscan shack for a wee christening. It will be an arduous journey but I will be strong.

B

Still rabbiting on

2008-09-17T02:39:00.000-07:00

It is a late Grahamstown night. The rugger buggers have finally stopped mauling each other outside my res room door and the last happy revellers have staggered up the hill from the Vic and passed out in their own pooh. The only sound is Ian “Mac” McCulloch's Scouse croon dripping from the tin can speaker of my mono tape recorder.

Fast forward nineteen years (nineteen years!) and that same voice fills the Royal Albert Hall. This is one of those rare occasions where I am surrounded by my peers. I've always been that bit too young to be blending in at those 70's rock gigs (Judas Priest, Motorhead, Alice Cooper et al) and a bit too old to not look slightly out of place at CSS gigs. Here, I'm just about right. The Bunnies (were they ever abbreviated thus? I care not) have kindly trawled through the classics, before having an interval break which allows the entire hall to scrum down at the bar.

When we return, a full orchestra has joined the lads on stage and they play 'Ocean Rain' from beginning to end. Fortunately this album contains four tracks from the greatest hits tape I had all those years ago, so I'm still able to sing along without mugging incoherently in that odd, badly synched way that clearly indicates you've never actually heard the song. Throughout the album set, images from the band's past slowly drift across two large screens and the crowd falters for a moment as a young and beautiful Pete de Freitas stares down at us with a small sad smile. The pictures start me thinking that sometimes the mere act of documentation is enough. It doesn't matter how good these pictures are (a lot are crap) or any pictures for that matter, it is the capturing of the moment that is important. It is with this profound revelation that I realise both I and Mr.Incredible are enormously drunk. We stagger out with the joyous crowd and make our way home via that evil pasty shop in Waterloo Station.

Next week, I will not drink anything, no really.

Dedication

2008-09-10T04:04:00.001-07:00

It's not easy maintaining a blog. Having the inclination and inspiration to post something on a regular basis that's vaguely interesting to the dozen or so people who can be bithered to visit. Ah well, what can you do.

Went to Oxfordshire and saw a 17th century pile and a girl who spoke to cats. Went to Brighton and looped the Loop festival. Here are some pictures. The band is called Transformer, they do an interesting line in cheesy electro disco and bad eyewear.

Blogging, it's exhausting.

B

'Allo John

2008-08-26T04:57:00.000-07:00

Like crazy mad monkeys, we snatched up this baby in the space of minutes. Many happy years of motoring in the wee mini cooper will soon be but a memory. Ah well, a new vista of driving bliss unravels before us. Now all I have to do is get my license so I can drive the stupid thing, how tedious.

B

By any other name

2008-08-08T02:31:00.001-07:00

I can't deny a twinge of guilt as I liberally spritz my roses with anti-black spot (I warned you this would be blogging material) anti-some other hideous floral disease and anti-any bug fulish enough to wander into the general vicinity. Chemical warfare strikes me as the sort of thing that shouldn't really be practised in the back garden. Anywhere else is fine, but the back garden is a no no. It's all so violent gardening. You mow down your grass, dead-head your daisies, lay down napalm pellets on unsuspecting slugs and snails before sprinkling blood n' bone over everything else. I want to sit on my faux rattan furniture and be one with nature, rather than brutally subsuming it to my will. I now realise why my mother has been so keen on gardening all these years. She's been carefully channeling her rage into grafting, plucking, strimming and forking rather than flipping out completely and stabbing my father in the eye with a butter knife while he was enjoying his breakfast grapefruit. Still, the lawn has returned from the brink and looks positively verdant and there's no denying the roses look good. The pessimistic sci fi geek in me can't help fearing the worst however. I'm going to wake up one day to find the entire house enveloped by some gigantic mutant rose/slug hybrid. Actually, come to think of it that would be quite cool, more agent orange, break out the toxic weed killer, let's build a monster!

B

Re-enter sandman

2008-07-22T07:30:00.000-07:00

Ooooooh! So shiny, so smooth. Complete with newly painted skirting board and touched-up (no spencer etc) hearth, it almost seems a shame to shove a bed on top of it. All we have to do now is either knock a hole in the lounge wall, or reroute a major piece of piping to resolve the five month old leak issue. Then we'll be all set to take everything out of this room again to fit secondary glazing, huzzah! This house business, it never ends.

B

Rainbows in my head

2008-06-26T06:51:00.001-07:00

Oeeoooooeeeeeeeoooaaaaah' says the scruffy little chap in red jim-jams, standing on the organic, low emission, carbon neutral stage in front of 50 000 odd people, all of whom are going 'Oeeoooooeeeeoooaaah' in return. Thom Yorke (for it is he) always brings to mind the narcoleptic dormouse from Alice in Wonderland. The weight of the world sits on his eyelids, making it dreadfully tiring to open his eyes and actually focus on the undulating sea of acolytes prostrating themselves before him. Perhaps it is all those energy efficient lights shining down from on high that keeps those peepers hidden, perhaps not. Needless to say, the man doesn't require sight to sing, and sing he does, solidly, for three hours.

The entrance exam for Radiohead must have been extremely hard to sit, as every single band member including Thom (or T Hom to use his gang name) demonstrates a complex array of musical dexterity. Equally at home behind the drums, strumming guitars, tinkling the old Joanna or singing, the band sheds instruments like beads of sweat. Les Pauls fly off and Fenders fly on and everyone seems to switch positions with every song. This band is a fluid and synchronous machine, oiled up and polished to a harmonious sheen by a thousand performances and 7 studio albums of consistently individual, exceptional rock music. Driven by the knowledge that they have utterly nothing to prove but what the hey, they'll prove it all again anyway.

B

If it's yellow...

2008-06-17T08:37:00.000-07:00

The relentless broiling sun of Cyprus seems like a distant memory as I gaze out the window at the drab Grey blanket smothering Sol UK(tm). Twelve days of intense sitting and reading, a lot of frenetic lying down and at times even some furious wallowing seem to have passed by in a blink. Cyprus Spirit was quaffed in vast quantities and profit margins for local brewery and purveyor of all things liquid, Keo, rose dramatically. Even their truly diabolical Keo Vin Rouge was consumed with gusto. Some Olympic standard games of pool volley-ball were played, and not even the random intervention of that 'crazy wind' could prevent the boys team from triumphing.

A venerable birth was celebrated and the neighborhood regaled with multiple renditions of 'Happy Birthday'. Brandy sours were compared and contrasted, moussaka and skewered pork consumed and no doubt there are remnants of the 10 kg b'day cake still in existence today (and for the next few years). Balls were whirled and skills developed from a childhood spent trimming pineapples on the old farm, finally came into their own.

Not that we didn't stray from the pool and bottle from time to time. Our trip to Kalamata, er, Kalimari er, something beginning with 'k' gorge was most enjoyable, though it wasn't long before we were gorging ourselves in a different way on yet more vast chunks of pig at a local eatery. We also did a boat trip and never has the word azure been more appropriate to describe the waters around the island, as we all set off for hours and indeed hours of jaunty ocean-going fun (and more pig, hurrah!)

Now we are home and forced to console ourselves by stroking our Sky boxes and sipping on that bottle of Cyprus Spirit that's been rotting in the cupboard since the last family jolly. Was it all just a dim hazy dream? No! Look here and remind yourselves.

Birthday 2.0 on the weekend, excellent!

B

Let's go fly a kite

2008-05-19T08:12:00.000-07:00

Anyone who swims in the ocean off the coast of England is obviously suffering from some form of frontal lobe injury, possibly sustained by running repeatedly into a brick wall (or being hit over the head by a carbon fibre surfboard). Anyone who straps a board to their feet and a giant kite to their hands and then enters said waters is certifiable. Then again, the land based kite flying done by the rest of us became crushingly boring within seconds, as the wind was so strong the stupid thing shot into the air and hung rigidly in the sky like it was on the end of a long pole. Perhaps if I was being hurled about by the elements rather than hanging grimly but uneventfully onto a thin string I would have found the entire exercise more gratifying in the way that near death experiences often are.

I vividly recall when I was at Uni, swimming naked in the sea off Kenton, in the Western Cape. I remember an ecstatic euphoria enveloping me along with the unseasonably warm water, and the strangely disorientating effect of being spotlit by the full moon's all-encompassing flat glare. Just ahead of me I saw bobbing in the water the other full moon of JN's naked buttocks. 'Join me' I thought I heard her say, and manfully (and perhaps a bit lustfully) struck out after her. It was only when I got closer that I realised she was actually saying 'Help me', by which time I too was caught in the unyielding maw of the undertoad. An hour of desperate struggling and many litres of salt water later, I felt the tantalising scrape of sand beneath my grasping toes. Staggering onto the beach I vomited a ruby cocktail of Tassenberg and brine onto JN's feet and we collapsed onto our towels, sobbing like babies.

Right, not sure why I recounted that story. Something about near death-ness and excitement, frankly I prefer boredom. Needless to say, the water in Cyprus better be hot n' flat n' shallow, otherwise I'm buying a kite.

B

Seldom seen kids - not for long

2008-04-17T08:59:00.000-07:00

Bury. When you grow up and live in a town called Bury, it's likely your music is going to err on the melancholic. Elbow however, have managed to take melancholy and give it an almighty kick in the buttocks. They've armed it to the teeth with vast stabs of brass, soaring swathes of string and cataclysmic percussion. Guy Garvey leads this charge from the front. A mournful Northern grit is the bedrock of his voice, giving it endless light n' shade; sweeping the crowd up from rain filled graves to sunny skies in the space of a verse.

Garvey is also a highly under-rated wordsmith and an acute observer of the mundane and profane. He describes a Soho doorman as 'Mercifully free of the pressures of grace/St Peter in satin/He's like Buddha with mace/.' (Forget myself) It's this wry humour that permeates a lot of the songs, adding a welcome smile to what is essentially quite gloomy material. His affable banter between songs ensures you warm to both him and the band even more. He's constantly asking us if we're OK, then gently admonishes us when we don't ask him back. At one point he horribly fluffs an intro and calls on the entire audience to boo him. His look of horror and dramatically clutched heart instantly turns every voice in the house to wild cheering, in case he believed for a moment we actually meant it.

This was a great concert and possibly the last time we'll see this band, which has been steadfastly plying their trade for 18 years, play such intimate venues. Songs as big as these need stadiums to contain them. These kids should be seen everywhere.

B

Lost Highway - found at Young Vic

2008-04-15T04:23:00.000-07:00

I suppose it must have seemed like a terribly daring idea at the time. Imagine if we took a dark, baffling, impenetrable movie, by the elder statesman of the dark/baffling/impenetrable oeuvre and made it into, *Gasp* an Opera! We'll get a DBI style composer and an even more DBI writer to knock up the libretto. We do some right moody visuals and presto, box office gold.

Sadly, what we actually got was a meandering, Philip Glass lite score, lack lustre visuals and some awkward melismatics from our cast of Actors(tm). The Mr.Eddy/Dick Durant character had the most fun with it, warbling and screeching like Tony Soprano on PCP. Our femme fatale also had a fine set of lungs on her, which she showed off with admirable regularity, both vocally and visually (God bless her). The Fred/Pete characters were deeply underwhelming however, and the rest of the hangers-on looked like the sort of saddo drama wannabes that hang outside the Old Vic stage door waiting for Spacey to sign their arses.

I think what irritated Skrzkrk and myself most was the unspoken assumption that the very act of making an opera out of Lost Highway was radical enough in itself to not warrant any further challenging of the material. No need to bother doing a score that actually disturbed and disquieted the audience in the way that Trent Reznor's original soundtrack for the film did. Lynch's films all have fantastic soundtracks and he's never afraid to mix genres and blend classical, jazz, electronica and heavy metal influences into one twisted soundscape. This show was seriously in need of some Burial or perhaps Sunn O))). The same goes for the lighting and general staging. Surely in a high tech space like the Young Vic's newly revamped auditorium, some of the film's intensely claustrophobic lighting could have not just been recreated but taken to new extremes. Let's pin Fred to the floor with a burning spot or crowd him into a pitch black strobed up corner. There was just too much conventional theatre business going on.

While we were perfectly well entertained I couldn't help thinking Mr.Lynch would have been bored stiff.

B

Green thumbs up

2008-04-07T02:20:00.001-07:00

A lot can happen in a week. An election can be stolen on one side of the world, a garden landscaped on the other. Sunshine can turn to snow. Hey ho. Thanks to some hard working individuals, we've got our back garden all ready for Summer. Unfortunately, no one seems to have informed Mother Nature (TM) that Summer normally kicks in around the beginning of April rather than Winter. Ah well, at least it saves me having to water the turf. Perhaps next week, when it rains toads or blood, we'll have to think again.

Needless to say, stock up on boerie n' beers, the braai's at our house ekseee.

B

Meribel Wedding

2008-03-31T03:09:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't strictly related to the wedding, but was our attempt to recreate a B horror movie scenario, using only a snowboarding rubber mitt and some artful lighting. Quite successful in my opinion, thanks to Edwardo for the art direction and stunt handwork.

After risking life and limb on some impressively snowbound roads we eventually cruised into Meribel with our clutch smoking and fingers bitten from a frenzied bout of last minute tire-chaining. The gloom and driving snow disguised the fact that outside our chalet window the mountain range, ski slopes and village were laid out before us in chocolate box perfection. It was only after pulling back the curtains in the morning that we realised how truly astounding our view was. Check out the flickr site I have set up here to see the panorama in full Technicolor.

After a boisterous public ceremony in the local town hall, the wedding party were all armed with matching brollies and formed a gauntlet for the happy couple (TM) to charge through. We then tottered down the hill to a sumptuous marquee, packed to the gills with champers, mooze booshes and foie gras. Having had prior experience with these events, I tried not to down too many shot glasses of salmon mousse and slivers of parma on rye, knowing without a doubt there would be more to come. I wasn't disappointed as we all took our seats for a four course meal of gargantuan proportions. The HC arrived to the distinctive strains of the Star Wars theme, which segued artfully (ahem) into Scissor Sisters, a particularly inspired choice which had the crowd on its feet. Many cute and hearty photo montages of L n' M followed and the love in the room was a thick n' creamy cloud enveloping all. Admittedly vast amounts of champagne had been consumed by this point, along with the odd 'PM' cigarette and some of the '76 red, which had been brought out especially for the occasion. We burned up the dance-floor like mad things, and I for one was extremely grateful for not having to DJ, mostly because they were very good (Plastikman into Blur anyone?) and partially because I was severely debilitated by excess.

We eventually called it a night around three, and apart from an unfortunate 'key left behind' incident, made it home in one piece ('Amore, where is thee key?' ) I felt a lot better than I should have in the morning, which was probably just as well, as we were set to do it all again that evening. In the interests of survival and a well lined stomach, we headed for the village and a hearty cheese-fest for lunch. Our fondue was utterly delicious, as was the vast slab of of melting joy which was Benjamo's raclette. We all decided that we probably wouldn't need to eat cheese again for the foreseeable future, which was very stupid of us considering the bubbling behemoth you see above which awaited us. More champagne, beautiful pate and breads and this massive tartiflette ensured our arteries would never be the same again.

My liver and stomach moaned with relief when we finally got into our car and headed back to Geneva the next day. I would like to say I have since been following a strict detox diet of nettles and distilled goat's urine, but this would be a lie. I seem to have drunk a lot, why only this weekend. This must end soon (or I will end it with my er, end) Perhaps I shall stop drinking until we go to Cyprus. This sounds very sensible, as no doubt that's going to be yet another booze-athon.

Maybe just one more glass. To the Happy Couple, Huzzah!

B

Fire angel

2008-03-28T10:29:00.001-07:00

Oooh, i capture an angel in mid-flight over Meribel. Soon I will add more pitchas on the wedding wot I just attend, but golly it has been busy and I has been slack. Patience childers, patience.

B

Contain and Control

2008-03-10T06:32:00.000-07:00

Hive Twilight City Event One featured the combined musical ministrations of infamous 'Dude of Yore' Jah Wobble, cruise line bartender and sound artist Philip Jeck and Borg percussionist Jaki 'Oh alright Hans' Liebeziet. Bringing a whole new dimension to the art of stage theatrics, namely that well known dimension 'One', the three groovers conjured up a series of narcoleptic riddims that had the crowd beard-stroking fit to bust. The Bug then cranked it up a dark n' dubby notch with the help of Warrior Queen; though the fire alarm accompaniment could possibly have been avoided, along with the endless tedious rewinds. Master Shackleton closed out the night with his distinctive brand of grimeordial landscapes, then it was all back to the loft for a Strcprstskrzkrk mega-mix.

A brisk walk along Crosby Beach the next afternoon, helped to jump-start the cerebral jelly; nothing like a hundred cast iron Gormleys staring blankly out to sea to give you a lift. 'Be kind, Rewind' happened in the evening, tho Gondry's unfortunate descent into touchy feely community hugginess left an unnecessarily cloying taste in our gobs (tho that may well have been the salt n' vinegar popcorn/M&M's combo.) The news of Bootle's mould shame was the final straw for me and I fled Liverpool as fast as the pendolino could carry me.

Thanks very much to the Phat Black and Cruiser for perfect hosting duties and a lorra larfs. Bring on event two!

B

The great kiss-off

2008-02-27T06:47:00.001-08:00

Events queen locks lips (ahem) with a bevy of backdrop beauties.

B

CSS

2008-02-25T03:36:00.001-08:00

Lovefoxx from CSS shows there's no need to worry about unsightly bulges when you're a rock goddess. This was one of the four songs we managed to catch before the lights went up and everyone had to burger orf. Fulishly we thought there was no need to rush to the gig, especially since we were only really going to see CSS and weren't especially bithered aboot the support acts. Little did we know this was a tightly regimented show, which started on the dot of 5.30 and wasn't going on a second past 9.30. Ah well, at least I got to see them perform the two songs I know, which counts as very efficient concert-going in my book. We had a jolly larf afterwards tho and it was nice to have the Brighton Babes in residence. Perhaps next time we push it to half an hour, whaddya say?

B

De-liverance

2008-02-21T07:33:00.000-08:00

I'm really enjoying not drinking. I think not drinking is the way forward. Not drinking beer and wine and spirits into the early hours of the morning, then walking around all day wishing you'd been not drinking. I do feel a warm sense of familiarity with Barcelona now tho. Streets are recognisable, landmarks are fixed. I'm no longer daunted by surly cab drivers and can make my way back to that cool bar on La Ramblas without too many wrong turns. It's deeply satisfying when cities you love finally infiltrate your mind and settle permanently into your mental geography. I have that with Cape Town and Johannesburg, and a few more visits to Rome will hopefully bed that down too. I have a new camera, the lovely Ixus 850i and while we're not yet firm friends, I'm sure a few million pixels down the line we'll be the best of mates.

There's no point going on about the event I've just attended in Barca, it has very little significance to anyone really. So much money is spent, and a hundred thousand zeppelins full of hot air is expelled to no avail. Phones have no sense of humour, I'm very close to hanging up.

Incidentally, the man above is God's Barista(tm), coming soon to a Shoreditch cafe near you. You will be eternally grateful for this introduction, he makes the finest coffee I have ever tasted.

B

Suits you!

2008-02-07T07:56:00.001-08:00

Ooh! Ooooh! Ooh! Do you like it Sir? Does it excite you? Ooh!

This is the sort of shoe the discerning Mobile World Congress goer will be wearing this season. It is the veritable Maserati of shoes and I thank the powers that be that I only had to pay for a third of it.

Oooooooh!

B

Billsworth in Barca

2008-02-06T07:07:00.000-08:00

This blog has been severely lacking in content of late due to the fact that I've been preparing for imminent departure to Barcelona, for a week of fatigue n' frolics at the Mobile World Congress. If you want to experience all the fun of the fair, I will be blogging from the event for all four days. As I'm obliged to actually do this, there will be regularly updated content including, if I can upload it successfully, video. Check it out here. For an idea of the sort of rubbish we churn out, follow the link to last year's blog on the right.

B

Cart him off

2008-02-06T03:24:00.000-08:00

The site of this beast in my rear view mirror would be enough to drive me into a ditch, especially if it was manned (or womaned) by the crew who went carting this Saturday. I thort perhaps I could get away with trundling around the track like Jools Holland on Top Gear, occasionally waving to the rest of the crew as they barreled by. As if.

Get into the cramped confines of your rocket propelled cart and you are immediately consumed with the imperative to drive like a crazed loon. The initial warm-up session passes in seconds and the green light signals us to put peddle to tha meddle. It takes about two laps for me to realise that go-carting after a late night isn't the wisest thing to do. Vision blurry, stomach churning, I'm hurling into corners while trying not to hurl into my helmet. The mad bastards I used to call friends flash by me on all sides, no doubt larffing raucously to themselves as they jet past. Our first run is a 25 minute endurance race, and never has the word been more apt. I am sweating and panting like a wild animal, visor steaming inconveniently as I squeal around that hair bend yet again, time and space distorting as I desperately resist the urge to release the wheel and plunge into the barriers. Then, Oh Blessed Relief, they signal us to stop. I stagger across to the pits, eyeballs whirling in my head and my gorge well and truly risen. Oh God say it isn't so, that was just the first race, we have another 25 mins to go. I'm almost heading for the changing rooms before Benja shames me into getting back into the saddle.

Off we go again and this time all I'm thinking about is survival. The competition has reached fever pitch amongst the rest of 'em. Black flags are appearing thick n' fast as carts are rammed and I am sent spinning by some swine who utterly takes me from behind (no Spencer, not that behind). The checkered flag flashes up for the second time and I crawl from my coffin, hands reduced to shuddering claws and stomach nearing critical mass. Heading for the loo, I jettison the red bull I had in the station at double quick time and cease to communicate with everyone else for fear of vomming in their faces. As we are in Docklands it takes a grueling hour or so to get home, before I can lie down and die.

All in all, a great day out!

I look forward to our team spa treatment day, as I'm very good at lying around and being massaged and I reckon I can take you all!

B

Gevrey Chamberlin Vieilles Vignes 2003

2008-01-23T03:56:00.001-08:00

Here we have the Gevrey Chamberlin Vieilles Vignes 2003 a burgundy with such immense charisma and class, it should really be sporting a cravat and monocle. Instead, I draped it with these kitteh (OK, it's very hard not to feature them!) I actively avoid French wine, having had a lot of crap over the years and essentially having no idea what's good or bad. This at least has given me a very good starting point to explore further. We enjoyed it while watching 'Fantastic Four - Rise of the Silver Surfer' a mindless piece of pap which fortunately did nothing to blunt the wine's fulsome flavour. Apparently posh vineyards are now producing half-bottles of all their major brands in order to lure us into purchasing the larger amount. This is a stroke of genius and will be the downfall of us all.

B

Beach babies

2008-01-14T04:04:00.001-08:00

'The ocean doesn't want me today/but I'll be back tomorrow to play.' So sang the ever jaunty Tom Waits on the uplifting happy-fest that is Bone machine. It's a line which always springs to mind when I'm by the sea. I don't like it much, the ocean. I have a deep seated fear of it, having nearly drowned twice, and like so many other things on the planet (door handles, ovens, bicycles, most inanimate objects with sharp edges) I have a nagging suspicion it's out to get me. I do like to sleep by it though. I find the rush and pull of waves on a shore immensely soporific and would love to own a house near it (just so I can keep an eye on it y'know). Children seem not to suffer from this fear, or at least they're more exhilarated by it in that roller coaster way, rather than viewing it as the cold implacable killer I know it to be. They'll learn, mark my worms.

Oh yes, as for Warres Quinta da Cavadinha 1978, this stuff is liquid sex. This is the first time I've had a genuine vintage port and thanks to the handy link above, I now realize we should have taken our time with it, rather than slopping it about from a plastic jug with joyful abandon. No matter, it was delicious, with none of that lingering ethanol quality you so often get with fortified wines. I will attempt to seek out something similar and try to hang on to it for longer than ten minutes.

B

Project Pickering

2008-01-09T05:56:00.000-08:00

It was clear from the headline that this was not a town to be trifled with. I thort perhaps my purchase of a sleek, matt black pair of wellies from B n' Q would allow me to blend seamlessly in with the locals, but no one appeared to be wearing them at all and I soon got the feeling I'd be joining santa in a brutal back street deflation from an irate Pickerite. We'd done the town sq. twice in the space of minutes and realized we were wasting our time and the only answer was to return to our cozy trio of cottages for more Olympic boozing.

Indonesian night passed by in an inebriated fugue. London night was ours so required a degree of sobriety, but only 0.01 of a degree. Cypriat night also featured karaoke, so no hope for abstinence there. Christmas day? Puhleeese. Murder Mystery night? You must be joking, especially when you're playing an American Indian called Lowawatha, with an alcoholic grandmother. Perhaps what made us open the wineandbeerandbrandyandwhiskyandbaileysand tequila every night was the fact that we'd all chipped in to a seemingly bottomless kitty and felt obliged to drink our share no matter how ghastly we felt. An SAS assault course one afternoon over some spongy yet sturdy terrain (laughingly described as a public walk) gave us a momentary respite from the bottle, but it was short lived.

This though, is the nature of Christmas. The time of fandamily and good cheer, of which we had in abundance. The entire operation was put together with military precision and I doff my metaphorical cap to Team Pickering (you know who you are) for their supreme organizational skills. I also extend my deep gratitude to all of House Grandage, for welcoming me to the bosom familias and giving me the most entertaining Christmas I've had in years. I hope gashed chins and fractured kneecaps have healed and that the phrase 'Tip Tip' quietly fades into distant memory, never to be mentioned again. Fat chance I fear.

B

Rimage 2004 Syrah

2008-01-09T03:25:00.001-08:00

It has been pointed out to Billsworth, that the blog of late, has had an unhealthy leaning towards all things kitteh. While undeniably cute, this doesn't make for terribly profound reading. In order to make amends, I'm kicking off the New Year with a new blog project, working title 'Stuff that gets us pissed.' As Loved One and I have been receiving a very nawtee box of superb wine every second month from the gurus at Philglas & Swiggot, we feel it only fair that we feature on these hallowed pages, the stand-out stars from each box for your predilection. Naturally we don't want this transition to serious (ahem) journalism to be too jarring, so our first featured tipple, the 2004 Rimage Syrah will be introduced by yon kitteh, who appear to have indulged a bit over the chrissie period themselves. This taste monster was enjoyed with lemon n' garlic chicken and a driving bass line, followed by sticky toffee pud and a hearty swig of Benylin Chesty Coughs.

I will be posting Chrissie related pics and a breakdown of Christmas festivities, AKA, Project Pickering, shortly.

B

I haz a giant paw

2007-12-12T05:59:00.001-08:00

Haahahaha etc. OK, so there's going to be a lot of this business going on around here, y'all just have to suck it up until I've exhausted my kitteh worship (which may be some time).

B

Crazee animal action

2007-12-10T05:06:00.001-08:00

More evidence that tequila is an equal opportunities destroyer of minds, as poor duggy stares blearily out into the void. I didn't really mean for her to knock back my shot for me, but put your glass down for a second... Pickle the parrotcat could possibly do with a shot or two of the old mescal herself; perhaps a little too in tune with her primal instincts if the holes in Loved One's hand are anything to go by.

Many thanks to the whole fandamily for their most excellent birthing gifts and all round hospitality. There may be a few bottles of red left in the world for us to drink, but Christmas should finish them (and us) off, I have no doubt. I'm glad we had a chance to practice our cabaret routine and I apologize for moulting so heavily on the carpet, performing show tunes tends to bring on rampant hair loss in me, I don't know why.

Let Project Pickering commence!

B

The cuteness continues

2007-12-10T04:52:00.001-08:00

Haahahaahaahahaahaahahahahahahaahaha! Aaah.

B

Interpol

2007-11-30T03:01:00.000-08:00

This is the faceless, thousand yard stare of the post goth, post punk, post mortem Interpol gig goer. See how lifeless are his eyes, how the declamatory clang of Interpol's over used bangajanga guitar riff has worn away his slack jawed mouth. He has traveled further than every before to be here, this place, this N22, this Allie Pallie. He has endured pretentious, self involved noodling from a support band who frankly should have been stoned off the stage after one tune, rather than be allowed to play for over an hour. He has exchanged tokens for beer, tokens for cider, tokens for whiskey and coke, yet still the pain persists. The pain of post goth New York loucheness that gushes forth from the lips of Paul Banks as he barks:

Now I'm alone, you can't make amends/
Now I won't let you sit by/
But so call in the kids/
Now that's enough with this fucking incense

Just spare me the suspense

Yeah Paul, spare us all mate and fall on your fretboard.

Still, nice to get out and aways a pleasure to see the Elegant Analyst. Can I choose the next gig pretty please?

B

Man Illuminates Sign with the Power of His Mind

2007-11-27T02:08:00.000-08:00

Must be that mega-watt smile.

B

We iz on yr couch, sleepin

2007-11-27T01:56:00.000-08:00

Hahahahaahhahahahahahaha. Aaah.

B

House- Sandman cometh (again)

2007-11-15T03:42:00.001-08:00

My buttocks are aching and I have lingering patches of varnish in bad places, but here it is, the newly sanded and varnished brekkie room. This will be the last (pre-party) house posting , the bedroom ceiling has been done and the first layer of sparkle blue applied. Hopefully another coat will do it, then a bit of eggshell on the wood and Robert is your Father's brother. Then we have to clean. Bah. Parties, who needs em?

B

House- final countdown

2007-11-12T04:05:00.000-08:00

This tantalizing glimpse of the breakfast room is all I can offer in this, the final week of the great housecapade. You can see the thing for yourselves come the weekend, just don't tramp about in it with yer stilettos, swinging yer glasses of red wine about the place (specifically, about the sofa.) It seems rash after nearly 11 weeks of non-stop renovation, to be putting the whole thing in harm's way by exposing it to one's marauding com padres, but it's not every day a lady turns er, 21 +, so we have to celebrate in style. Be gentle please, it's her first time (her being the house, ahem).

B

Kitteh

2007-11-09T02:43:00.001-08:00

Haahahahaahahaahahaahahaahahaahahahahahahaahahahahahahaha! Aaah.

B

House - Tour 2

2007-10-30T03:04:00.000-07:00

Fire in Babylondon

2007-10-25T01:53:00.000-07:00

Always nice to know your local fire service is close to hand in the event your neighbour's car gets firebombed. Bravo chaps! Thanks for rushing around so quickly to put out the FLAMING CAR, a mere three cars down from our own humble transporter. Sure, there may have been a problem with the electrics, or some other completely benign form of spontaneous combustion. This reporter remains doubtful. Ah well, nothing like a warm welcome to the neighbourhood.

B

(All pictures, blurred though they maybe, copyright Billsworth!)

House - The tour

2007-10-19T03:06:00.000-07:00

House - Enter sandman

2007-10-10T02:16:00.000-07:00

'Don't do it' they said, 'You'll regret it' they said. Ha say I, we did do it and it looks fab! Despite the odd blister and ruptured hamstring, the whole sanding business went off really well. Muchos gracias to Mr.Cree who gave of his valuable sabbatical time to drive the lean mean green machine while I made like a sumo and attacked the edges. The whole thing took us about four hours, and we even managed to get in a first layer of varnish before the sun went down. I applied a second coat the next day with a brush (the flat mop business looks like it should be easier, but those mops don't really take to varnish that well) and am altogether happy with the result. Oh yes, and the bathroom is also finished, and I think the glass tiles in the shower look really sweet. The support bracket for the missing chimney breast is meant to be going in today, so hopefully the whole place won't fall down now, just as it's all coming together. The mellow moca on the hallway walls looks er, mellow, and now there's really just the utility room and plastering the kitchen to do. That said, both of these things seem to be exhausting the Bulgars, as they appear to be avoiding them. Don't stumble at the last hurdle men, the flag is in site etc.

B

Return to the Shire

2007-10-01T06:08:00.001-07:00

Wiltshire that is, home to ancient piles of rock, large chalk horses and my mother when she were but a childer. Summoned in mid-build, I swept off to this most beautiful of counties with three oldies in tow and one cousin. My Canadian Uncle had been given this trip back to his homeland by his daughter as a happy 80th birthday present. The fact that he'd only turned 79 was neither here nor there, she'd already booked the tickets so he was coming no matter what. To crown off this prodigal return, I was to deliver them all to the doorstep of the cottage where they grew up; the National Heritage postcard you see above in the village of Cherhill. Cherhill is also home to one of four chalk horses scattered about Wiltshire, and Mater was going to walk up and see it, even if it killed my Aunt. Uncle was having none of it, having already OD'd on nostalgia and russet apples back at the cottage, so we left him snoring in the car and trudged through icy winds to see yon horsey. Feeling we hadn't sufficiently had our fill of old things, we also did Avebury and Stonehenge, both of which are deeply underwhelming in every respect. I recommend stopping by the horse and taking a turn around this very dinky village tho, apparently the cottage was first noted in the Doomsday book so it's been around awhile. If you happen to stop by the pub however, don't eat the duck breast in orange and passion fruit sauce. Quite bitter it was, like the person who had to consume it.

B

House- Construction time again

2007-10-01T04:08:00.000-07:00

Yessiree, it's all coming together. Here we have the newly installed kitchen, complete with freshly painted ceiling. The new bathroom is also in and functional and the shower looks great. Hopefully the request to add a few more tiles behind the sink, won't be greeted with looks of Bulgarian disdain. The en suite looks fab, some artful tiling going down here too which better not be trashed by the installation of the supporting bracket. The spare rooms have been carpeted and painted and the walk in wardrobe is ready for er, wardrobing, now that this nice Bulgarian lady has finished touching it up. We're starting to see the proverbial light, once the hallway has been decorated and I've sanded the reception floors with the assistance of Mr Gooey Cree, we should be semi-ready to move in at the end of next week. No rest for us though, as the roof people then start the Monday after. I cry a little.

B

House - Master Plaster Part 2

2007-09-20T06:51:00.000-07:00

Ha, how soopa do the kitchen tiles look? They look farging soopa! Never mind they still need to be grouted n' stuff, I care not. This is the first time I've actually seen something going in, as opposed to being ripped out. The boys are tromping along at a furious pace. I'm trying not worry about the fact that my chief builder and leader of the whole Bulgar invasion has gone on a five day piss- up in Morocco with ten of his mates. 'Beer is 30p, water is 30p, who would drink water, hahahaahaha!' Let's just hope he comes back. Master plaster mysteriously dropped a day, but he's back in full effect and will hopefully finish all the rooms by the end of the week. Loved One has been on leave and has worked like a trojan to paint the front room single handed, the woman is a saint etc. We've now shelled out for a roof refurbishment and two velux windows in the loft along with foam insulation, so the music room is a lot closer to completion than expected. The fact that we will be paying it off for the next ten yers is neither here nor there, I larf in the face of ludicrous outlays of money left right and centre. I larf like this haahahahahahahahahahahahahhaahahaahahahahahahaha. Ha.

B

House - Master Plaster

2007-09-17T01:53:00.001-07:00

Right, this is all getting a tad repetitive but there you go. The chimney breast in the en suite has been boarded up and awaits a supporting bracket. There is now a mountain o' shite piled up in the front garden, but for half the price of a weeny skip, you can have a mountain o' shite van come round and drag it all away in one shot; if you don't mind destroying your front garden. Doors have now been bashed through to the en suite and what will be our walk-in wardrobe on the right. The reception has been completely stripped now of wood chip and awaits God's Plasterer (TM). This individual is held in awe by the rest of the Bulgars, 'He is machine' they say, 'No breakfast, just cigarettes and go.' We witness this for ourselves, as, in the space of the first ten minutes of our arrival, he's plastered the chimney breast in the kitchen and both sides of the stud wall in the utility. The reception awaits his machinations, as does the en suite and the main bedroom. Two weeks before we move in, the crew shrug their shoulders nonchalantly and say 'No problem.' We shall see.

B

House- destruction reigns

2007-09-05T07:58:00.001-07:00

Shreds of wood chip hang like the dessicated skin of a snake from the ceiling of the reception. The shower room, denuded of dodgy pink tiles, awaits extraction. Holes are springing up where walls used to be and doors are becoming walls. Once again I am nervous, but there's no denying the enthusiasm of our hearty Bulgarian crew. The kitchen fitter also visited and measured everything up. He looked a little perturbed by the curious configuration of the basin and dishwasher, but reckoned he could get around it. Never mind there's a crate of Zimbabwean ephemera arriving on Friday. Ye Gods, where am I going to put Uncle Bernie's chest? Deep breaths Billsworth, deep breaths.

B

House- more holes

2007-09-03T06:40:00.001-07:00

Risking horrid death, our intrepid builders secure the ceiling/floor after the chimney breast has finally been removed. Thanks v.much to Mama and Papa G for their painting and tea making skills, your help was much appreciated. Hopefully there will be more tangible evidence by the end of the week, that progress is being made. At least one room looks shiny new, only five more to go. Now, if anyone has any clever ideas abut staining floor boards, answers on a postcard please.

B

House- gaping maws

2007-08-28T03:13:00.001-07:00

Not sure how cathartic posting these pictures is actually going to be, but at least we can see progression of sorts. Here we have the gutted utility room and brutalized kitchen chimney breast. Loved One and I attempted some DIY this weekend, but were stunned into inertia by the enormity of it all. That and the enormous outlay for tiles and carpeting; in the inimitable words of Green Day 'It all keeps adding up\ I think I'm cracking up'. Soon we hope to have a sense of how it will all look in the end, but right now it's a vast builder's crack, from which no light is shining.

B

House -the beginning

2007-08-20T06:22:00.000-07:00

And so it came to pass that, in the face of interest rate hikes, last minute gazzumping attempts and all manner of tribulations, we finally manage to complete. Now however, begins the really tricky business of 'doing it up.' Builders are set to start this week, tiles have been chosen, wall colours agreed and various family members co-opted to help with DIY. I shall attempt to capture the lows and lowers of this process as it unfolds. All we have to do now is knockdownthechimneybreastinthekitchenripoutthekitchen
replacethekitchentilethekitchentiletheutilityroominstalladownstarisloo
stripandreplasterthereceptionandsandthefloorsremovetheold
bathroomandreplaceitwithanewoneinstallanensuitetile
theensuiteknockadoorwaythroughtothebedroomknock
adoorwaythroughtothestudywhichisbeingfittedoutasawalkinwardrobeand
plasterandpaintfookineverywhere and don't get me started on the garden.
This still leaves a giant loft to be renovated and a cellar to be tanked. Neither of these things will be happening in the near future, as the pot o' gold seems to have a wee hole in it. The party is penciled in for November, can we build it? Er, watch this space.

B

Big Chill

2007-08-07T10:14:00.000-07:00

'Hey, that boat's like, burning and stuff.' No you stoner eedjit, it's covered in wee mirrors and driving my camera insane. Big Chill on Saturday evening is filled with extremely monged people. Weavers, staggerers, fallers over; essentially, as one individual put it 'We're all twatted!' I shall wax lyrical on this event tomorrow, as right now I'm feeling the effects of minimal sleep in a shitty half-man tent and maximal intake of alcohol and its close compatriots. In the meantime, here is a link to more pictures.

B

Everyone needs a Daemon

2007-07-19T03:13:00.000-07:00

Christ, my foot is huuuuge

2007-07-16T05:52:00.001-07:00

Young Zach, gazing out the window at the sky, lost in information overload. Thanks very much to Mum and Dad for a delicious piece of lamb, a cheeky chianti, and very nice dessert wine to push us into oblivion.

B

Grand Tour

2007-07-16T05:30:00.000-07:00

They describe it as a banksy backlash, but really it's just a fun way to infiltrate the common consciousness without coming on all heavy about art. The Grand Tour has dotted prints of classic works of art around Soho and the West End, for the man in the street to admire or ignore as they see fit. You can go on a tour of all the prints and submit your pics to their flickr sit e, specifically set up for roaming photographers to upload their snaps to. had I known this beforehand I would have made more effort with the picture. Ah well, they can't all be gems, anyway, it's about the art maaaannn. Cool thing about Van Eyck's classic seen here, is that he wrote 'VanEyck woz here' above the mirror on the back wall in which his own reflection can seen, hard at work behind his easel. He like totally invented graffiti, eat that banksy!

B

The Wizard of Izzard

2007-07-06T05:39:00.001-07:00

Captured from a distance with the old camera phone while security wasn't watching, Eddie Izzard about to take flight on yet another elaborate tangent. I love this man. I love this style of comedy. So what if there was old material cropping up, I don't care. He can do it all again, over and over, it bothers me not. Jam, Darwin, flies, Nuns, wasps, chickens, Mohammad, French, German, God, intelligent design and the Romans. The man's a genius. It's good to see him on stage where he belongs. Not poncing about with Clooney n' co, not doing a bad American accent. Not on screen. Film is not this man's medium, I wish he'd just accept it and come back home to the London that loves him.

B

Living it up when it's pouring down

2007-06-26T04:49:00.000-07:00

Any lingering desire to attend Glastonbury and its inevitable mud-bath has been firmly quashed by the relentless deluge which accompanied our sojourn to Hyde Park to see veteran rockers Aerosmith. With Loved One and Rocker/Rockette in tow, we establish ourselves in our traditional spot in front of the sound desk, and settle in for the evening. In order to insure we didn't lose anyone from our party we built a lager, er, laager around ourselves, which lasted about a minute before it was trampled carelessly into the mire by myself. Undaunted, we bought another forty pints and prepared ourselves for former Soundgarden front man, Chris Cornell, to ponce about on stage. Since mowing off his locks and starting up Audioslave with the former Rage against the Machine crew, Cornell has lost it IMHO. The nadir of his career being, as any fule kno, the utterly wet Bond theme, for which he should be brutally coshed. I, however, am man enough to overlook this descent into naffdom, especially as he does a smokin' rendition of 'Jesus Christ Pose' - my all time favourite Soundgarden choon. Temporarily placated, I went on the first of many grueling journeys to the portaloos to download urine. There will be a nobel prize for the first person who perfects festival ablutions, but probably not in this century. I opt for the cover of the trees and irrigate an oak in the company of an extremely inebriated man, who appeared to be weeping while he wee'd. Asking no questions I waded back to base, tramping on endless feet and receiving hearty abuse from all and sundry. I return in time for Jet to come on and ask me whether I'm going to be their girl, which I have to politely decline. These Aussie boys do good and the crowd are well primed for a hard n' heavy dose of the 'Smith. We've been joined by T n' E who've miraculously found us in the human storm and look both fresh, dry and sober in comparison to our sodden, sozzled selves.

So on to the main course and here is Steve Tyler in a fetching 10 gallon hat and traditional mike scarf, belting out the classics like he'd never taken every drug in creation and drank most of the Jack Daniels in America. These ancient rock gods must have some truly unique DNA to allow them to recover from a life of debauchery sufficiently enough to be able to do it one mo' time for the fans. I'm hoping to osmotically absorb some of this magic elixir, as I feel a monumental hangover may be in the offing. Rocker has taken on the wild eyed mentalist look I know and love and abandons us suddenly to go off in search of rockette; that's the last we see of them then. This us unfortunate, because 'Walk this way' is brilliant to hear, as are all the old faithfuls, and Joe Perry lashes his machine with his usual lascivious intensity (You can just make him out, leaning back on the drum stacks above.) Hell, it even looks like Gerard Depardieu has joined the band, tho we may be mistaken. My trendy jacket has confirmed that the term 'shower proof' means exactly that and not a drop heavier, and I seem to have inherited Rockette's leather stockman's hat. Praise the Lord for sober friends with a car, as we inch towards Hyde Park Corner and the sanctuary of a Mini Cooper. Thanks for making it out there kids and even more thanks for getting us home. Now, has anyone heard from Rocker?

B

Manc's for the memories

2007-06-19T05:36:00.000-07:00

Ah yes, those photo shop filters never cease to amuse. This is mostly to disguise the starry look in Loved One's eye and the flushed skin of Billsworth. A trip to Manchester inevitably involves the odd drink, and Saturday night was no exception. Rather than ease our way into the afternoon with a genteel glass of chenin blanc and polite banter, a keg of Dethmuller was cracked open and plonked down next to some jugs of Sangria. As I'd already opened a Magners, I was mildly concerned that we may have been leaping into proceedings with unnecessary enthusiasm. Come 7 o'clock, we'd polished all that off and were violating the odd bottle of red. Come 8, we seemed to suddenly be on Brandy Sours. Come 9 I recall Disarrano and Christ preserve us, was that tequila? Come ten, an element of nudity is creeping in, nipples are being flashed and there is random falling over. Come eleven, we are discordantly abusing the Rocky Horror back catalogue and the jaunty labrador pup has turned into some crazed hellhound, all glowing eyeballs and salivating jaws, or was that just me in the bathroom mirror? Come twelve and I appear to be back on the Magners, and the last taco shell is dribbling into Loved One's hair from her brother's mouth. I'm hoping by 1 we'd gone to bed, please let it be so.

Ah well, at least we scored a bargain on a sofa thanks to Grand-ma-age, hopefully one day soon we'll have a house to put it in.

B

For more evidence visit flickr

Wood sprite

2007-06-12T05:35:00.000-07:00

Having never actually been to Wimbledon Common despite setting off there with great intent on a number of occasions, I was pleasantly surprised. There are a number of fairytale forests you can disappear into and not see a soul for hours, apart from random joggers and the odd slavering Labrador. Juju and Chatsie had provided a hearty chicken for us to gorge on and a fine selection of tarts to appease our sugar cravings. The children disappeared into the primordial bracken from time to time for a game of not really hide and please seek me a bit quicker thanks. The sludge infested pond revealed all manner of exciting bugs and gelatinous plant life for study, and many minute frogs fled for their lives as small fingers scrambled after them. Altogether a very pleasant day and one which I would prefer to blog about rather than the house hunting farging nightmare we seem to be embroiled in yet again. I'll leave it at then shall I?

B

Boules-up

2007-06-04T02:17:00.001-07:00

The fiendish look of concentration, the pursed lips, the hurtling chunk of metal, it can only be the Boule d'Or. Once again we gathered in Cleaver Sq, to chuck over-sized goons at a small wooden pig/ball. Once again we were horribly trounced by practically everyone. I'm not sure what it is about our boule skills. We seem perfectly adept, yet still we find ourselves suckling the proverbial hind tit. I would like to lay blame at the sandaled feet of Au Savage and the Bernmiester, but sadly I am equally at fault. We just literally and metaphorically, drop the boule, but nowhere near that tedious little pig. Still, it was a very pleasant day, the Oranjeboom flowed free and we were united in our despondency. In the coming year, we should really entertain the thought of actually practicing a bit, rather than waiting for the next d'Or to come around before raising our wrists. Crazy talk I know, but we want to win that cake and those marzipan boules, God I could almost taste them!

B

Wighno tunes?

2007-05-29T04:42:00.000-07:00

Question marks hover over the Wighnomy Brothers' heads as both my camera and the crowd ask 'where are all the tunes?' DJ Koze came no closer to answering this question, having forgotten to pack any himself in that mad rush for the airport. Electric Cabaret put on an ok party, big warehouse, dire portaloos etc, tho £4 beers demand five star entertainment and that was sorely lacking. The crowd were edgy and largely unimpressed with the constant 'kill the beat, bring back the beat' school of not really dj'ing at all. When the two teddies eventually made it to the decks, they spent the first twenty minutes wallowing in atmospheric excrement they appeared to be extracting from each other's vast rumps. Had this poo'dling resulted in some cataclysmic break down which promptly booted the lethargic lysergics into a higher gear, we'd have instantly forgiven them, but noooooo. Almost as an afterthought a dull thud crawled out of the bass bins and lay dying on the floor at our feet. We thought perhaps any beat would be a good beat at this stage, but the plodding doof of manure rhythmically plopping to the ground beneath the decks, sounded the death knell for our evening and we headed South.

I'm a miserable clubber at the best of times. I have a magnetic attraction to elbows and glowing cigarette butts and loathe the constant jostling and jabbing that inevitably sends one or other of these items into my eyeball. A particularly insolent crew of Spanish chica midgets chose to surround us on this occasion and jabber incessantly into their phones whilst wielding their marlboros like carcinogenic light sabres in our faces. Is it wrong to want to batter a Spanish chica midget to death with its own phone? I think not.

Praise be to the N35 which carried us back to Tunetopia, a red room jammed with delights and an upstairs neighbour having his own party, it doesn't get better than this. Yet again, we are forced to ask ourselves, why do we ever go out?

B

Recent dead

2007-05-22T06:30:00.000-07:00

Renowned South African artist Diane Victor is featuring an exhibition of work in tandem with a group of other SA artists at the Cork St Gallery. The pictures that make up the series 'recent dead' capture the faces of people 'snuffed out' as it were by HIV. I don't use this term flippantly as the images themselves have literally been coaxed out of the smoky impressions left by candle smut on paper. The technique creates works so fragile the slightest bump can reduce them to dust, their innate vulnerability echoing the flimsy substance of human existence etc etc. The artist continued this theme with a series of pictures of missing children, drawn from photos found in old police reports and family albums, forlorn portraits of the lost and forgotten. Naturally I've bought a whole bunch of 'em to lighten up the front living room of my new house, wayhey! That's just it really, noble and powerful and meaningful and brilliantly executed though these pictures are, you don't really want a row of ghosts staring down at you while you're watching 'any dream will do.' Must I feel bad for not purchasing 'worthy' art? At £900 a pop I feel nowt, but if you got the cash and the conscience, pick up one of these today, they'll go great above the mantelpiece next to your bowling trophy.

B

Inspiring words

2007-05-14T04:15:00.000-07:00

Nothing like the management of your gig venue coming over all warm and fuzzy. Well, let it be said, last night's sounds were anything but bland, boring or monotonous. Dark, furious and f**king loud, but definitely not bland. The hen night in the corner were possibly expecting a few Al Green classics, maybe that nice Beyonce and Shakira track. They moved downstairs smartish as the lo-end shattered their eardrums and left brain matter all over the nice wooden floors. That seemed to do it for punter activity, the rest of the night was spent entertaining the five odd people brave enough to return upstairs. On reflection, this is perhaps not the ideal location for journeys into experimental sound. Ah well, t'was worth a try.

B

So bad it's...just bad really

2007-05-08T01:56:00.000-07:00

Only Tortured Artist could get away with sporting a cardie of such epic cheese as this. The fly fishing theme is carried through to the front, with an elegant wooden rod curving artfully over the left breast. It being his birthday n' all, I was willing to rise above this pret-a-poisson moment in the interests of being a good sport. We could have lingered endlessly in Soho with the b'day boy, but Loved One and I had a prior engagement with Captain Eager and the Mark of Voth.

Yes, sadly it was as shite as it sounds. Potentially a good idea homaging/pastiching the old Dan Dare comics but while the clunky set vaguely amused, the clunky script failed dismally on many levels. Despite the welcome presence of Green Wing alumni Tamsin Grieg and Mark Heap, the emaciated joke starved to death in front of us. The screams of larffter from the crew and cast in the front row, gave you the impression you were sitting in on someone's hilarious family video of that wacky themed Christmas they all had in a cottage in Cumbria. Still, it's not often you attend a world premiere of a film where the director stands in front of you with a guitar and sings a little ditty to introduce his opus. I'd like to see Michael Bay introduce Transformers with a few choice licks from a ukulele, now that would be entertaining.

B

Bartlett goes out in style

2007-04-30T04:39:00.000-07:00

And so it came to pass that the local authority in Bethnal Green deemed the W.S.Bartlett building the perfect place to erect cheap student accommodation. That a thriving gallery space had existed there for the last year was of no consequence to them, down it must come. Thus, we gathered for the last time on that blustery rooftop, to pay homage to Tortured Artist and his crew and see the old place off with a somber little gathering, quiet contemplation and birdsong.

Ha, fat chance, instead we have a fuckwackdoodly balls-to-the-wall Hooliebashjam-athon. (a party so big, it requires new words to describe it) Don't get me wrong, there was a lot of art going on too. Dunebug did the installation you see above involving a caravan of clay boxes being dragged through various holes and some cathartic hammering. TA did some of his distinctive daubing and profound doodles. A lot of insects gave up their limbs in the name of fashion jewelery. Art was definitely there, but so was everyone else. By 2a.m the place was seething and the Bastard Sons of Bass had already been on the decks for 3 hours. Much to the relief of the crowd, we'd taken over from the noisecore four piece 'band' who'd punished everyone beforehand with a diabolical cacophony that couldn't even hide behind the term avant-garde it was so shite. We banged it out to the very limit of both our tune collection and our bladder capacity. With a distinct lack of ablution in the place, the men were forced to take measures, ahem, into their own hands and pee off the roof into the alley below. I'm not wild about such fetid behavior, but desperate times etc, and anyway, the whole place is being demolished next week which is the kind of giant pisser you just can't top.

Hopefully the legacy of Bartlett will live on, perhaps to be reincarnated elsewhere, we can only but hope.

B

Bartlett's last hurrah

2007-04-27T05:49:00.000-07:00

Tonight heralds the final exhibition and closing party for the W.S.Bartlett gallery, home to not only Tortured Artist, but also to many TA's in training. There will be much revelry and we might even get to play the odd tune, if we can bludgeon one of the other acts off the decks.

B

Daywalker

2007-04-26T09:30:00.000-07:00

As the weekend was spent in futile pursuit of an elusive dream (house hunting) not much happened to inspire profound blognacity. So look upon this picture as a sort of ghastly piratical test pattern. The ghastly ginger pirate it depicts is so truly ghastly and ginger, I was forced to try turn his picture a colour as far away as possible from ginger, so as not to scare those of a weaker disposition visiting this site. Despite this, the sickly copper hue of the eyebrow still glows through sufficiently to cause unease. It proves beyond doubt that a lifetime of persecution has evolved the ginger in such a way as to exert its innate gingeness, even in the face of attempted eradication. This must be the reason why they still keep being born, turning up unexpectedly and unwarranted in maternity wards all over the world, like those inexplicable glistening carrots lurking in your Guinness and kebab vomit.

Hahahaahahaha, jokes man, I love redheaded people, don't get me wrong.

Ghastly gazing ginger pirates however...*shudder*

B

The endless wedding

2007-04-18T05:43:00.000-07:00

The first thing people ask when you tell them you attended a Sikh wedding is "Was there booze?" This is just plain ignorant, do some research for God and the Ten Gurus sake. There was enough booze there to mash the four hundred odd people attending into a giant alcoholic cottage pie. Tray followed tray, crammed to the edges with pints, chivas, bacardi, whatever you fancied. I warned my table not to overdo it with the first course, but did they listen? Noooooooo. Between courses, young and old staggered onto the dance floor and threw shapes to some belting bhangra. Then more food arrived, then more booze, then more bhangra, thrn mroe fude, thrn mre buzee, thin mere bunga, tghvn mghjr fvdd, zzzzzzzz. Mr.Goeey Cree sensibly ordered a cab for our hotel for 12.30, giving us a clear window of escape from this excessive loop. Naturally we made our way straight to the bar because obviously a night cap was in order. No officer, I don't have a drink problem, honesht.

Many thanks and best of luck to the happy couple, especially since I hear they're packing the whole thing up and doing it all again in Leeds. I didn't notice a new liver on your John Lewis list, but I'll put in an order for you anyway.

B

Dystopia 2

2007-04-11T04:37:00.000-07:00

Obviously speeding on an enormous chocolate egg high, the denizens of Clapham descended en masse on Lost Society this Easter Sunday. Fortunately, the combined forces of Expairofmentalists and Mindlobster were sufficient to keep them in check. EPM managed to give us some lush sonic landscapes, despite being crippled by excessive high jinks from a mate, resulting in a 3 hour visit to casualty the day before. Mindlobster must have been boiled lobster after 45 minutes inside the hardest working helmet in showbiz, but he too wielded his magic power block with great elan. The crowd were hungry for more and Lo, we didst give it to them, at least until we were rudely hoofed off by the owner who wanted to lay down some cheese in celebration of aging or some other bollocks. While this was extremely tedious we must not despair as there's always May the 13th and our Highpointlowlife extravaganza, huzzah!

B

Children and dogs

2007-04-05T07:55:00.000-07:00

Apparently you should never work with them. You can take pictures of 'em, just don't work with them.

B

Saltbreaker

2007-04-05T02:22:00.000-07:00

Haahaahahaaha, screw you 100 Club, not only did I take a picture of the band, I also took a picture of your stupid sign, hahahaahahaa, I am anarchy incarnate!

Anyhoo, Laura Veirs eh? First of all this is not my musical genre of choice, not even sure what to call it, Indie chick folk rock perhaps. The crowd at the 100 Club look like a panel from Ghost World come to life, lots of earnest bespectacled boys clutching journals and er, strong women, bristling with equality. Laura herself has the old Speccy Seattle Kook Thing(TM) going for her and she wears it well. Her atonal angst-lite voice washes over us like the waves she constantly references in her songs and apart from the odd idiot demanding 'the single', her acolytes are generally a passive lot. The occasional 'whoo' cuts out from the front row as Loz strums an old favourite, and I am shushed by my companion She-Jay, for mock whooing in response. She-Jay speaks fluent Indie and eats kookflakes for breakfast, so is able to guide me through the intricacies of each plaintive cry. The Saltbreakers themselves are sporting curiously embroidered jackets and effectively re-produce the unobtrusive noise that floats behind Loz on the new album. Sometimes though, as I jerked back into reality from one of a number of micro sleeps, I wished they would let loose a bit more. Bless though, this was their first gig of the tour and I'm sure they'll be burning their geetars and playing piano with their feet by the end.

Note to Stephen Merchant (who is no doubt reading this blog and taking notes) your quest for a she-jay for your podcast has ended. As you can vaguely discern from the pointillist picture above, my She-Jay has all the rock chick attitood and Indie nous you could possibly want, and she's tall, call me now Stephen, call me!

B

We've got five years, my brain hurts a lot

2007-03-28T06:39:00.000-07:00

The canny among you will have recognized my supremely appropriate subject line, care of old Ziggy - and how apt it is. I was going to go for the 'I kiss you, you're beautiful' line, but this seemed slightly more relevant. Congrats to the Groove King and Queen for sharing a dance floor together for the last 1825 days, I wish you thousands more to follow. GQ looked fabulous in a dress she hadn't worn for 10 years. 10 years! Christ on a bike, if I tried to get into 10 year old trousers I'd castrate myself. GK bounced back from his nasty lurgy to lay down some smooth moves and GR was the host with the most as ever, congrats to you too Sir. Sorry I didn't capture the two of you terribly well, it got a touch hazy towards the end. The creepy, bunny eared Mini-Si also scares the sheisenhousen out of me so I thort I'd share it with y'all to.

Don't forget those of you who are here over Easter, that's our next gig. I'll put up a proper flier n' all soon, so very soon.

B

Weird Weekend Part 2

2007-03-19T10:09:00.000-07:00

Yes yes, these images make perfect sense, why wouldn't they? Steady on, explanation to follow.

Rather than simply get into a cab and go home, I decided to stay in Bethnal Green and accompany Tortured Artist and new Italian girlflesh, Bella Roma, to Jumpers in the Park's house (these code names are getting confusing) for an after big band drinkie winkie. JITP seems to have acquired herself some new boyflesh too. A man of great intensity who I will not describe in any way, other than to say, he has the sort of mother who will knit for him on request a long stemmed cigarette holder, complete with smouldering ciggie - 'nuff said. We manage to extricate ourselves from this mental torture and head back to TA's lofty garrick for some shuteye. I use the term shuteye loosely, as TA has built a shed on the roof next to were his flat resides, and stuck me in there to sleep. This 'shed' is made from random bits of mdf and planking he secured from various tips and creaks and groans like a bad horror movie at the slightest suggestion of a breeze. The fact that it pissed with rain and blew with cyclonic ferocity on Saturday night is neither here nor there.

Rousing ourselves with the noon, we headed off to Brick Lane and our official 'Day of Culture.' Cheshire St off Brick Lane is the ideal place to put together a large oppressive installation encapsulating the frailty of the human condition in the face of the relentless juggernaut of technical advancement/obsolescence. Instead we went to 'Simply Botiful' the new work from Swiss junk yard collector and artiste Christof Buchel. After crawling up, down and around this claustrophobic nightmare of immigrant sweatshops and the pokey holes they crawl into when their torturous days are done, we went for brekkie. Why the copies of 'Mien Kampf' translated into Arabic, anonymously arranged next to a pile of festering white goods? Why not? - Fuck off pleb, I'm an artist and I'm Swiss, your puny mind cannot begin to comprehend my genius, fuck off back to art-in-the-park.

Having trawled from Brick Lane to Shoreditch and taken in a number of new spaces and budding works of merit(TM) we ended up at Parasol Unit. This is the kind of super cool white cube that makes you feel stupid before you've even made it through the door (how was I to know you had to pull then push?) Momentary Momentum is a collection of animated drawings by terribly famous people, only one of whom I actually recognized. The rooms are divided into gloomy tombs, allowing you to sit reverentially as Images of Great Meaning(TM) pass jerkily before your very eyes. OK, it wasn't that wanky, but I was all cultured out by this stage and in desperate need of a larf and a pint. The David Shrigley was fun and the Kentridge brilliant and depressing as only Kentridge can be, but I could have done with a bit more humour myself. A couple of glasses of nice chianti later and I was fired with enthusiasm. I shall give it all up, cash in my chips with TA and start London's greatest gallery, we will feature TAs from around the world and arsy white cubes everywhere will wade through a mile of our faeces just to feature one of our works ( most probably our debut work - 'a mile of Faeces') Then I went home and passed out in front of 'Dancing on Ice.'

B

Weird weekend Part 1

2007-03-19T09:00:00.000-07:00

Lurking down a back road off the Bethnal Green high St is the Bethnal Green Working Men's Club. This curious venue has quietly carved out a niche for itself as the place to go to when you want to slip on your spats and your zoot suit and cut a rug to some big band sounds (well you might!) They host a random confection of burlesque evenings, Mexican wrestle-mania and lindy hops and have a fascist door regime, so don't even think about coming in jeans. Ahem, having changed out of my jeans into a pair of borrowed white trousers, then back into my jeans again after the trousers barely made it past my knees, I entered the fray. Hep cats and cool chicks were frantically twirling each other around to my Father's record collection and even Tortured Artist appeared to have dressed for er, some sort of occasion. Admittedly, a white cable knit sweater complete with leaping carp motif artfully plashing across the back, worn together with Rupert the Bear trousers spattered in paint, probably comes from an era time has gratefully forgotten.

Beside the rather ordinary bar was a groovy cocktail lounge and instant tattoo parlor (hence the clawed throat) First act of the night was the fabulous Puppini Sisters a trio of doo wop dollies doing it (or wopping it) in a forties Andrew Sisters stylee, right down to the auburn, brunette and blonde hair. They belted out a number of standards before doing their own re-interpretation of Beyonce's 'crazy in love' - a bit of a thing of theirs it seems, having turned a number of heads with their woozy bluesy version of Wuthering Heights. Although they (unfortunately) don't strip, there's a burlesque air to the performance, those outfits are so Dita Von Teese I was kinda hoping for a costume change and an encore, just to see what they'd wear next. Hell they could have changed right there, nooo problem. While King groovy and the Hornstars swung it good, there was no replacing the lovely sisters in our hearts and we left shortly after. The rest of the night was spent entertaining a man on the edge and trying to sleep in the hull of the Mary Celeste while it rounded The Cape of Storms, but I shall elaborate further in my next post.

B

Idiot alert

2007-03-16T06:22:00.000-07:00

I posted the comment below on the blog of Steph - a lady of great opinion and little sense. Sadly, she sought fit to remove my comment, forcing me to re-create it here. Please feel free to visit Steph and voice your opinions, so she can remove them too.

It's nice to see you're not letting your astounding ignorance of the situation in Zimbabwe, get in the way of a good sound byte, bravo. Not sure where to begin with your fatuous diatribe, so let's start from the top shall we? That well known running dog imperialist lackey the BBC does actually have representatives of its organization in Zimbabwe. Brave, independent journalists who suffered beatings themselves to get the story of what happened on Sunday out to the rest of the world. They were not just aimlessly spouting 'MDC propaganda' they were being whipped with sjamboks and beaten with iron bars, by a 'Police' presence identified by eye witnesses as sporting the infamous green bombers of ZANU PF's youth militia.

'The Herald's version is pro-Mugabe and pro-police but at least they were there.' Anyone who has actually read one line of the Herald in the last ten years would know the utter stupidity of this statement.

'You don't think crippling sanctions, civil war and British meddling played more of a role than the incompetence of black farmers?' Er, no actually, in 1997, some seventeen years after Independence, Zimbabwe was one of the fastest growing economies in Africa. As a direct result of Robert Mugabe's land repatriation program, over a million highly trained and dedicated black farm workers were displaced from their homes and sent into the country side to fend for themselves, purely because they did not support ZANU PF. Are these the people you claim Mugabe has 'Far more support' from? Or is it the 3 million odd suffering from starvation and HIV, while the Government withholds UNICEF supplied grain from those daring to wave the red hand of the MDC?

Zimbabweans have utterly no reason to be 'anti-British' other than because of Britain's patent LACK of meddling in the affairs of Zimbabwe. Zimbabweans care about working, feeding themselves and their children and not dying of AIDS - Mugabe's anti-colonial rants fall on deaf ears. Your crass generalizations about a people you know nothing about only serve to highlight your ignorance.

'Morgan Tsvangirai is a Western sponsored "terrorist' Never mind the fact that charges for this ridiculous trumped up accusation were dropped by the Zimbabwe govt after it was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt, the entire farce was a sting operation set-up by them to discredit Tsvangirai. If the MDC leader can be accused of anything it's naivety, and desperation for funding; another clear indication of the singular lack of 'Western' financial assistance the MDC is actually receiving.

You don't strike me as a stupid person Steph, you have bold opinions and aren't afraid to voice them. Surely though, a degree of fact finding wouldn't go amiss, before unleashing your 'insights' upon the world. Or is that too much like hard work?

More Dystopia

2007-03-15T07:32:00.000-07:00

Er, OK, these wild staring eyes are merely to inform you that I'M WATCHING YOU hahahahaa! Also, that there are more pics from Sunday's gig here.

B

Last stop Dystopia

2007-03-13T06:06:00.000-07:00

So the inaugural gathering of Dr.Dystopia's cabinet of electrickal curiosities went off with a bang, and indeed, a crash and the odd smash. Hats off to strcprstskrzkrk for easing us into the night and Con Brio (see pic) for kicking it up a notch with some superbly fractured beats. Special thanks go out to the Glaswegian morons who decided to glass some unsuspecting punter in the middle of one of my finest tunes. Cheers lads for shutting down the entire evening just when we were reaching dance nirvana, you stupid pricks. Thanks also to those who made it down to Lost Society to see us do our thing - Finan, Edwardo, Au Savage, Rusty, Mr.Incredible and the Bigpip - lotta love, lotta love. Despite the unwelcome descent into anarchy, the evening was a grand success and we look forward to really going big on Easter Sunday, see you there!

B

Filthy tedious

2007-03-08T07:23:00.000-08:00

The gaping orifice suspended above me, gazes down in horror as I shuffle from foot to foot, desperate not to be noticed as that shameful pariah of the dance floor, the lone clubber. 'See you at 10.30' they said, 'Few drinks beforehand but we'll definitely be there' they said. Knowing better I got there at 11.30, mildly perturbed by the empty club yet still naively hopeful. Two and a half hours later, one beer and a number of increasingly embarrassed circuits of the entire building, I called it a night. Thanks to the couple who took my picture and gave me a sympathetic pat, you guys were great. As for the stag party erm, party, damn you all ta HELL!

B

Take stock

2007-02-28T08:28:00.000-08:00

The old Stock Exchange in Barcelona has been converted into a conference and party venue, and makes for a particularly Gothic setting. This brooding atmosphere was sadly blown out the water by the hearty/ghastly latino sounds of Buena Vista Social Club, the crazed gobos strafing the ceiling with the Blackberry logo and giant vid screens in every corner, banging on about the joys of email on your phone. Email on your PC is bad enough, having it follow you everywhere you go is a thort too hideous to contemplate. Still, cool building, may the Gods of Architecture forgive the mobile telecomms industry its hubris.

B

Corndles

2007-02-22T06:30:00.000-08:00

Ah yes, corny I know but at least the colours are nice. The Sugar club down by the port was the venue for the symba party and the scene of general depredation by 3GSM party scavengers. Yours truly had to bounce a few people from the door and it's not something I'd like to do on a regular basis. 3GSM brings out a sordid desperation in people, all frantically trying to blag their way into parties they failed to score tickets for. These parties are usually shite, and full of the same dull suits you've been trying to avoid during the day. Norman Jay was playing at ours and despite developing gastro on the plane over from a gig in Moscow, still managed to crawl onto the decks and lay it down for an appreciative few.

B

Burnox

2007-02-19T08:38:00.000-08:00

Events queen gets too close to the camera and coruscates top layer of flesh. I like overexposed images like this, they warp the face to such an extent they leave the barest suggestion of the original visage but create an all new face in the process. Some would say this is a good thing (yes Spencer, you would say this) but no doubt EQ will squeal in horror when she sees this. Fear not EQ, there are many others to choose from.

B