Les Boules Des Chiens

Banned twice, responsible for the deaths of 38 people, the deadly game of Boules has a checkered past indeed. So it was with some trepidation that I joined Au Savage and friends for the 'Boule D'or', a bare knuckle bout of ball hurling and piglet crushing which soon took its toll on us all. La Cicciolina of the ladies team was the first to fall, suffering a vicious ankle injury which sorely hampered her usually stellar form. Having observed her discreetly from behind a bench, I cunningly mimicked her elegant stance and added a few stylistic flourishes of my own. The final look was what I'd call 'la teapot petit'; one hand behind the back for balance, the ball hand extending trunk-like ahead of the body, boule cupped downwards in the palm to facilitate back spin. While this may sound fairly ridiculous to observe, I'm confidant I blended into the crowd, as all around me were crouchers, danglers, mincers and swashers of varying degrees of skill (including my own team mates, like the gurner pictured here). Having made short work of the ladies, Team Chien took on two other crews, but sadly choked in both games and carelessly tossed away their chance for glory. Probably just as well, as the pub was growing more alluring by the second and our enthusiasm waning horribly. Needless to say, a jolly time was had by all. I must also take this opportunity to point out that the ham rolls were most delicious and without a doubt saved the day, ahem! I did notice on Sunday morning however, an unfamiliar aching in my left tricep which has now been diagnosed as 'boule arm'. This severe affliction adds to the historical litany of pain and disaster that haunts this game. I just hope I'm able to lift a glass again, otherwise the cheese eating surrender monkeys will be hearing from my lawyers.

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Yes, a dog, in a window

Every blog needs a dog. Here's mine. Oh alright, it's a flimsy premise for a post, but I'm under pressure here and I like this dog's face. It was extremely unfazed by my attention and didn't move an inch as I pranced around its portal (No Spencer, not that portal). Why this creature was resting in the window of a carpeting store, I know not. Perhaps, this is how they entice custom in Manchester. Perhaps it's a sort of interactive thing; you get to see how easily dog hair comes off their fancy carpeting right before your very eyes. Perhaps it is an extremely high-tech animatronic security camera and if I'd lingered for a second longer, its eyes would have emitted an intense beam of concentrated light which would have cut me in half. Perhaps I have watched one too many episodes of Battlestar Galactica Season II in a row.

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That warm feeling

Sunday afternoon, 6.30pm. Sigh9 and myself board the Northern line towards Bank and ultimately Liverpool St, our destination, the grammatically challenged Gramaphone. We quickly realise, along with our more compos mentis fellow travellers, that there is a curious river of liquid running along the floor. All eyes quickly turn to the gentleman in the corner, and the remarkable stream of urine cascading forth from his jeans. Anyone who has ever relieved themselves in the ocean or the school pool, knows the iniquitous delight of pissing in their pants (God Forbid I'd every promote such behaviour, ahem.) Sadly this man was too far gone to appreciate the warm primal glow of the voluntary soiler. He probably awoke to a chilled crotch and the gentle ministrations of the London underground staff, hurling him into the street. We took this as a sign to keep our beer consumption within reasonable limits and went on to enjoy some hearty Teutonic banging (No Spencer, not that sort of Teutonic banging) care of Marcus Hartmann (The Siamese twin with the chiselled cheek bones) from Pulsar Records in Berlin. At the end of the evening, as a special treat, la Sonje led Strcprstskrzkrk and myself a merry dance around the city streets in search of that holy grail of bus routes 'The 35'. Naturally we failed dismally in this quest and found instead a series of small walls knocked up by some Romans or something. Two days later we got home just in time to miss 1st look 'Lost', nice. Ah well, apart from the minor detour around London's tourist hotspots, a very successful outing indeed. I come over all warm just thinking about it.

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God is watching

As depictions of Christ go, this has to be my favourite. There's a particular quality to his sightless stare that wavers between the benign and the malevolent. Just the sort of look you'd expect to get from your Deity of choice. No open arms, no suppurating palms and flowing locks, this guy's got his eye on you and you'd better prepare yourself for judgement. This bizarre sculpture lurks at the back of St Micheal's (I think it was) in Highgate, taken with my first camera phone, the hefty Nokia 7650. He vaguely reminds me of Gort (who also rocked a particularly swish silver speedo, which I wouldn't mind seeing Our Lord and Saviour sporting at the next reading of the Magnificat) That's probably why I like this so much. It brings a much needed robotic nuance to the whole Son of God(TM) thing.

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Phew

What a relief, a luverly pair of daffs. Don't get more jolly than that. Rinse your minds of previous horrors, bask in the glory of these humble horns.

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No Spencer, not that sort of horn

Craterface

The scorched earth landscape of my skin, ravaged by the twin terrors of African sunlight and chronic acne.

Kids, wear hats in Summer. Not much you can do about acne though. They say there's no link between acne and genetics, I hope not for my child's sake.

That's the problem with having a camera you can turn around and point at yourself. You get tempted to go for the close up. You shouldn't see the inside of your body and you shouldn't see your skin close up.

Ah well, next time I will post a picture of a flower, this is all gone a bit noir. Still, phone cameras, you can't knock em.

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Au Naturel

The Peak District is a hotbed of depravity and salacious behaviour as any fule kno. You can't move without stumbling into the Devil's Arse or coming across priapic pagans, mashing exotic mushrooms into their faces and prancing around obscene outcrops of ice age rockery in the altogether. While the rest of my earnest group of budding landscape photographers were fiddling with their f.stops and peering into the haze to capture the definitive shot of a wall, a tree and a sheep, my eyes were strangely drawn to the rocks and their saucy ways. The Roaches are the Peak's slightly inferior answer to the The Matopos and would be lovely if they weren't covered in the blood of failed rock climbers and suicidal sheep. After Peaking for four days it was nice to come down to the relative sanity of Manchester and the questionable sanity of the relatives. Nothing like a rousing game of full body contact netball to get the blood racing (out of various gaping wounds). I'm particularly grateful for being included in the ancient family tradition of cremating the dried out Christmas tree at the first Barbie of the Summer(TM). I'm sure those burn marks on the second floor will disappear with a lick o' paint and the neighbours weren't too alarmed by the six foot column of fire randomly whooshing up over the fence. I also thoroughly enjoyed the loving exchange of cups of water in the face between two of the brothers, a curious way to express one's affection some might say, but who am I to question familial customs.

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Self Plate-rait

The Kitchen of La Belle Sonje. It's yellow, it has plates, what more do you want.

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N for Nawtee

No, I haven't gone all corporate or received a vast sponsorship deal from a certain network operator named after a fruit that isn't an apple (though I'm more than happy to sell-out if the bunce is nawtee enough). This picture, taken in the aforementioned network operator's reception area, demonstrates the impressive capabilities of my Nokia N90's onboard camera. OK, so I'll be the first to admit this is a bit sad, banging on about one's new mobile phone, especially when one works for the creator of the operating system, lurking within the innards of said phone. I didn't want to post anything but sigh9 forced my hand by drawing a wee picture demanding succour. So there, you happy now? You've forced me into branding my blog with advertising tat. Not that I really follow this new campaign for the fruit related net-ops. They seem to have taken a rather random group of animals, a raccoon, a panther, a canary and a dolphin, to represent their new mobile packages. No doubt intensive marketing reasearch was done to determine which animals mankind felt the greatest affinity with. A dolphin makes sense, free to roam, man's aquatic best friend, higher brain function, tuna friendly etc. A panther is almost acceptable. You could get off on being a panther, prowling the wilderness, befriending abandoned children and bears, maiming campers, lotta fun, lotta fun. I'm not so sure about the canary. Many's the time I've enviously eyed that weird piece of cuttlefish in a canary's cage and wished I could be the little feathered fella for a few minutes, just so I could rub my beak against that strange bio-ceramic carapace. I'm not sure anyone else on the planet shares this view though. As far as a racoon is concerned however, no one in their right mind wants to be a raccoon. They may be mildly endearing in a ring tailed bandit masked kind of way, but it never really works out well for their kind. Raccoons either become roadkill or hats, or dubious ad campaigns. If given the choice, I'd take the pantechnicon any day.

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Damn, knew I should have finished reading the paper on Saturday, I might have read the Zoe Williams piece on the same subject, ah well, great minds n' all. Nice spot Strcprstsk

Not a drop to drink

Growing up in a country which seemed to be perpetually in the throes of devastating drought, it's a tad depressing to sit on a grey, miserable, rainy island and have to endure it all again. Though admittedly, 'endure' is laying it on a bit thick, as no-one has yet suggested we put a brick in our cisterns or pour the bathwater into the loo (if we should be so reckless as to have a bath in the first place). However, Red Ken has advised we don't flush if we've 'Just had a pee'. Cheers Ken, that's the sort of cutting edge conservational thinking a crisis like this demands. It's the kind of insightful thort which makes this toilet notice in the pub I visited last night, all the more amusing. The Water Poet (it just gets better and better) has had water gushing up through the floor in the Mens for weeks, despite endless appeals to Ken's plucky crew of divinators at Thames Water. Luckily I have no grass to be banned from quenching with either hosepipe or sprinkler. The bedraggled Plant of No discernable Identity(TM) in my kitchen, seems to get by on a pint of the clear stuff every six weeks/when I remember. I hardly water my rubber plant at all and it's rapidly taking over the dining room and will soon require some brutal trimming with a machete. I know too well, the grief a person can suffer by growing overly attached to houseplants and indeed, fauna in general. My Mother rashly returned to the Zimbabwean homestead she was forced to abandon last June, only to discover that the year she leaves, the country is drowned by torrential rain. After endless seasons of futile drought busting (roaming four + acres with buckets of bathwater) she found her pride and joy transformed into the Island of Dr. Moreau, though fortunately without Marlon Brando in a sheet, lurking in the undergrowth.

All this drama, and Summer hasn't even begun, I dread to think what the Nation's mood will be mid-August, when they're all onto their third layer of skin and temperatures are 'Soaring' into the twenties. At least my rubber plant will be happy.

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The house always wins

One of the most alluring and infuriating sounds in the universe is the distinctive 'tiddlipoodlitiddlipoodli' of the modern slot machine. It calls to you from every single corner of Vegas, from the airport lounge to the petrol station rest-rooms, there is no escaping its insidious siren song. I hear it tiddling in my mind as I attempt to fight jetlag in my ridiculously large hotel room. I've exhausted the joy of the electric curtains, the telly in the bathroom and the childish, though strangely satisfying action of lifting up the jelly babies, then replacing them just before sixty seconds is up and you automatically get charged for the stupid things. My superb blag/v.important high level meeting in America's own Sodom and Gomorrah, has sadly failed to alter my fortunes (other than for the worse) though it has had a detrimental affect on my waistline. In this town, the carnivorous lard eater is King. The rare vegetables that accidently make it to your plate, huddle in the corner, crowded out and humiliated by the bloodied haunch of cow that takes centre stage. Promenading down the strip, I encountered this other famous carnivore. When I suggested to an awestruck out-of-towner that they should cut the top half of Roy's head off just for the sake of continuity, he looked at me like I'd shat on his golden calf and stomped off into some plastic vegetation. Me and my crazeee limey humour.

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The finger through my throat

At four in the morning, the Red Room begins to throb. The coalescence of sound and light, leaves tangible arcs of matter suspended in the air around us. These ephemeral creatures take hours to dissipate and dance on our retinas for days afterwards. We hang from our bottles of Fink as if they've been cemented in space, and we've snagged on them accidentally like so many novelty balloons caught in the rafters of Waterloo Station. There is only one law that propels us, the Old Law, our private mantra - One Song-One Song. He follows her then it's him then it's me, the genre simple enough to define. I call it electrotechnohiphoptwostepdubstepdancehallgrimeandthattunehemadeonabletonlive.

Strcprstskrskrk, it's your song.

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Like a Pounding Hammer to the skull

'Alcohol oh alcohol, I love you in my brain/Alcohol oh alcohol, I never want you again, YOU MAKE ME SICK.' So sang Charged GBH at the end of their seminal (in every sense of the word) first album 'City Baby attacked by Rats.' I have a similar opinion of the devil liquor, having smashed champagne, beer, red wine, white wine and gin into my face on Friday evening at Benjamo's Birthday soiree. The unassuming pub on the ground floor made the magic grotto at the top of the stairs all the more surprising. With crystal rocks imbedded in the walls and elaborate candelabras sweating wax by the bucketload, the restuarant area had an otherworldly quality which took on Middle Earth proportions after several bottles of champers. Into this cave of delights tripped the improbably gorgeous Eurocrew(TM) late as usual but golly who cares when this lot are about. We took to the vast table with hearty abandon and tasty morsels and fermented grapes poured into our mouths from...a...giant funnel in the sky (I may have hallucinated that last bit) Speeches were made, chairs were stood on and hands and heads were waved frantically about for no apparant reason other than perhaps to maintain balance, some of the party having had the odd tipple that afternoon, ahEM. I thank God I was not of their number as I truly cannot imagine what additional drinking would have done to my hangover which was anyway ENORMOUSLY HUGE AND BIG. I was partially mollified by the news that the b'boy also suffered in extremis, though as is tradition with this drug, after one day of abstinence I was soon chugging down the Riesling like a fule. Happy Birthday Ben, now please stop aging, it's killing the rest of us.

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Bastard Sons of Abasement

The two gurning idiots in the front of this picture are obviously responding ecstatically to yet another suave mix by the Bastard Sons of Bass, or at least one of them, the other son appears to be picking nits off the gurner's head like the Silverback he is. I can now confirm reports that Gane put the 'shame' into 'Shameless populism' by sneaking in his diabolical re-mix of 'Billie Jean'. Though key members of the Phat Black were itching for their coats on hearing this, the crowd seemed to like it, and much stomping and gyrating took place. Oddly enough, there has been no response from the venue regarding future gigs. Could it be *gasp* that they didn't like us? Nay, it cannot be so, for verily, we rocked the place, despite requests for both 'Take that' and 'Kylie' which clearly indicate the clientele we were dealing with. Apologies to loved ones who had to sit around for five hours of cheese, beforing sitting around at the post mortem gathering for yet more hours, enduring crazed robots; such is the life of a booth babe.

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Cool Blue

It is grey and drizzling, I stare blankly at this picture hoping to gradually discern the face of Christ, Mother Theresa, or perhaps Moe from the Simpsons. Nope, all I'm getting is a raging thirst.

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It's great when you're Tate, yeah.

Today I really can't write, but will fight through regardless. I went to see Martin Kippenberger at the Tate Modern, on the recommendation of my artist friend Collie. I thought perhaps it would provide an insight into the febrile workings of his own mind, but I'm none the wiser for the experience. Kippers was prolific in his short time on earth, though it strikes me as a tad cheeky to get an assistant to churn out a sizeable chunk of your stuff, no matter. I feel I should be providing some pithy commentary on the retrospective, but I'm a bit tired after walking the dog this morning, and nothing profound is leaping to mind. I do think though, I should take a few self portraits of me in me large grundies as this look really rocks. In the end, the Members' bar proved far more gratifying, especially after three glasses of a very nice Clare Valley Reisling, and golly don't I sound poncey. Despite Artic winds, the sun was actually shining as you can see, and provided an artful backdrop to our artless boozing. Next week I think I'll drink my way around the Bauhaus thing; art and alcohol, such delightful bedfellows.

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Manchester England England...

...across the Atlantic sea, and I'm not really a genius genius at all, having insisted the locals show me that fancy folding bridge which turns out to be in Newcastle. Never mind, still managed to do a lightening tour of the town including the Urbis Centre seen here. At the foot of this perspex wedge lurks a Gloom of Goths, huddled from the wind in dark corners, exchanging blood and Bauhaus bootlegs or whatever it is Goth youth do. Manc teens in general cram the streets and crowd onto the Metro at every stop. Knife faced girls and bullet headed boys, filled with lead and powder, primed to go off if you so much as look at them. Back in suburbia, I've perfected the glassy smile which accompanies the act of 'looking at photographs.' I have seen Christmas pictures and wedding pictures and holiday pictures, I think I may even have seen someone's holiday pictures after their Christmas wedding. Kodak need not panic that people aren't printing their pictures anymore. Rest assured this practice is alive and well and being sustained single-handedly by my loved one's family (Can a group of people sustain something single- handedly? They can now)

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Roboten

God bless this little fella, fair warmed me cockles he did ha ha not at all, especially when I was curtly informed 'he' was a she called PaPeRo. Her master kept whispering enticements into her aural cavity and she would squeal delightfully and stagger around her platform like a dipsomanic dwarf. This machine is a bitter disappointment for those (of us) hoping to put their feet up and allow robots to take over the world. Sure you can phone her up and watch through her eyes while neighbourhood kids steal your stereo. You can get her to talk to your fridge to determine whether you're low on milk, but it's hardly 'Rise of the Machines' is it? I want lasers, piercing the night with their death dealing light. Random blades popping out of secret compartments to hack arteries and dismember fulish humans that bend down and say 'Oooh, how cute.' She also sounds like a Manga school girl, and that's just sick man, sick sick sick. Any fule knows robots speak in single cadent bursts of electronic loathing of the 'Exterminaaaaaaaaaate!' nature. They sure as shiz don't burble 'Konichiwa!' and chuckle. Babies chuckle, robots destroy.

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Heidi hi

Nothing like a corporate piss-up to get you within spittin' distance of a b-list babe like luvli Heidi (The pretty one) from the ever evolving girl band that is the Sugababes. No doubt the girls were expecting to troop on, bang out the odd 'hit' and dash off to their babe lair, cackling loudly as they counted off the squillion euros that got them there. The poor creatures never expected baying hordes of suited cretins, heavily oiled on free Moet, to drown them out with a dischordant version of 'Push the Button.' Keisha scowled down on proceedings with barely disguised loathing and the new one who isn't Munter, looked like she was about to hurl. Only our Heidi maintained a professional air, gamely plucking a S60 flashing heart from the povo and pinning it to her bosom (God bless it) Hats off to them tho, they did a very passable rendition of Artic Monkeys' 'You look good on the dancefloor' which is overrated shite anyway and no worse for being spouted by les babes. All in all a jolly party, made doubly gratifying by the goodie bag containing a 6gb Sony walkman, not to mention the Sugababes CD to give to niece for her birthday (yeah, that's my story and I'm sticking to it)

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Barca Mad

'Barceloooooooooooooooona' sang a fat broad and some toothy fella in a dodgy leotard. Fair makes you want to sing it does, wot with its arkitekcha and crazee nightlife and snails and stoners and kultcha and musik etc. Having done the Sonar Festival for a few years it has been suggested that I act as unofficial guide to the City. This seems rash as all three times I was there, I had been up for 72 + hours, thoroughly medicated/caffeinated (No Spencer, not de-kaff...) and generally worse for wear. I know where the Moog Club is, where the fab La Rambla market is and the Museum of Contemporary Art; that should cover it really. I fear the conference centre is miles away from any of these, somewhat debilitating my use to the Symba massive. To hell with 'em, there's wall to wall bodegas, that's all anyone needs to know, that and the phrase 'Un cafe solo, dos cervezas, por favor' (maybe drop the cafe bit.) Curses, no time to blog, i must banter.

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