Re-enter sandman

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.

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Rainbows in my head

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.

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If it's yellow...

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!

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Let's go fly a kite

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.

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Seldom seen kids - not for long

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.

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Lost Highway - found at Young Vic

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.

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Green thumbs up

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.

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Meribel Wedding

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!

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Fire angel

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.

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Contain and Control

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!

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The great kiss-off

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

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CSS

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?

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De-liverance

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.

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Suits you!

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!

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Billsworth in Barca

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.

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Cart him off

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!

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Gevrey Chamberlin Vieilles Vignes 2003

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.

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Beach babies

'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.

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