Christ, my foot is huuuuge

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.

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Grand Tour

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 site, 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!

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The Wizard of Izzard

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.

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Living it up when it's pouring down

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?

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Manc's for the memories

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.

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For more evidence visit flickr

Wood sprite

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?

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Boules-up

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!

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Wighno tunes?

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?

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Recent dead

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.

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Inspiring words

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.

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So bad it's...just bad really

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.

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Bartlett goes out in style

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.

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Bartlett's last hurrah

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.

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Daywalker

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*


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The endless wedding

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.

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Dystopia 2

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!

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Children and dogs

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

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Saltbreaker

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!

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

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.

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Weird Weekend Part 2

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.'

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Weird weekend Part 1

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.

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Idiot alert

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

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.

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Last stop Dystopia

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!

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Filthy tedious

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!

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Take stock

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.

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Corndles

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.

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