Come back, I was joking!

Loved one disappears into a champagne pink horizon as the hapless photographer looks on (probably after I made the rondivoll gag one too many times) This was the bridge leading to an infinite beach, a mere stone's throw away from our aforementioned fab rondavel (Muchos gracias to Nige, a brilliant getaway place make no mistake) Obviously there's going to be no logic as to how I load up images of our jolly jaunt, It's utterly dependent on whether I've run an image through touch-up or not ( No Spencer, not that sort of touch-up). Those wishing to see graffiti related pics taken in and around Cape Town, would do to check out Stickerthing linked on the left. Hell, you should be going there anyway you cretins. This bridge can be found at Fisherhaven, a secluded timeshare just outside Hermanus. I would have callled it by it's official name Flamingo Lake, but as the environmental protection people saw fit to bulldoze a giant hole in the dunes to drain off excess water, there are now no flamingos and no lake. Still, t'was farging gorgeous.

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Home again, home again, jiggedy jig

Yes well, the whole blogging from the phone thing was a lie. Mostly because I changed phones to an N93, (ta Fox, Silkies in the mail, etc) and didn't have time to load blog software on. As you can see by this image, the new camera on the new phone seems to function quite well, even if the subject matter wasn't exactly ecstatic about being immortalised. Still, he did manage to keep still long enough to be captured here, and frolicking in the coca cola river and various other places. (images and explanations to follow) I'm still wading through a thousand work mails, so haven't really the time to wax lyrical about the last three weeks in the glorious Cape. I will endeavour to make up for my tardiness and will shortly take you through a step-by-step guide to drinking and eating your way to an early grave.

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Kode 9 and the Spaceape

As booth babes go, this affable charmer takes the orange sponge. Seems to have missed the memo that said 'all booth babes must be female, blonde and have perfected looking bored while smoking a cigarette.' At least he had the bored bit down pat, the Adidas/ Alpaca hat combo needs a little work though.

Plastic People in Shoreditch has a beast of a sound system, ideally suited to low-end basslines and skankin' beats. Kode 9 lays it down hard while the Spaceape spits out krewshall rhymes over the top and bodies liquify and explode all around. Fabulous to see Mwaff again after so long and Strcpskr and la Sonje. The single malt may have been taking things that little bit too far if my rampant shakes and uneasy stomach are anything to go by. Top-hole evening chaps, next stop Mamom's party, wayhey.

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Ode to the N90

It's corny I know, but I love the negative setting on my mobile phone camera. It's amazing to think I can reverse any old image and give it a sense of otherworldy oddness at the flick of a switch. Who builds such a thing into a phone, who, who? Those crazy Finns, beavering away in their little country, churning out mobile madness by the bucketload, that's who. I just know that despite it's larger megapixie rate and bigger memory and endless add-ons, the N93 just isn't going to please me as much as this phone. Then again, perhaps I can get Nokia to pay me a million pounds to film the shadow my child's inflatable ring floating across a swimming pool. Nice one Gazza, nice one. I'm filming a picture of my ring as we speak for your consideration, if you can find the time to climb out of yours and watch it that is.

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Soon goodbye so soon

Oh to be a bit steadier when taking low light condition reflective shots. Nevermind, it has a quality to it, despite its out of focus nature. It took a while to recover from this evening and the day and night that followed it, but I feel better now after hanging with the Manchester Massive and meeting a thousand jolly rellies. Even managed to fit in a visit to a plague village, which is as fun as it sounds.

Now, however, the time is rapidly approaching for me to wing my way to sunnier climes. How joyful this will be. Loved One has written extensive lists and I will attempt to follow them to the letter, rather than dithering about in my usual fashion. I'm reliably informed that it is 35 degrees C in Joburg - way and indeed, hey. I shall also attempt to blog via phone while I'm there, though this may prove beyond the capabilities of the South African service providers, we can only but see.

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Blog on blog off

This week I have failed dismally to blog on this site as I have been blogging frantically elsewhere. Here is that elsewhere, smartphoneshowAll the pics and text on this blog were uploaded via the Shozu mobile app, which I highly recommend. I am going to lie down now, as I am very badly broken.

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Ceiling with feeling

Look up in the middle of your Costa Cappucino, when seated at the Orange coffee shop on the bottom floor of their London operation in Paddington, and this is what you will see. It's a trippy place to do business. It's also a drippy place to do business. Condensation from the frantic Orange staff milling about swilling posh frappadoolies and furthering their Global empire, slowly gathers on the ceiling until it rains gently down on unsuspecting visitors. Our hosts found this terribly amusing, but I can't say being drenched in the condensed effluent of thousands of Orange drones really appeals to my sense of ha ha. I drank my coffee a lot quicker once I realised what that warm sensation was on the back of my head.

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Rocketmen

I hate to delete posts, but sadly my first venture into mobile blogging was a bitter disappointment, so I was forced to remove it. Not that anyone will miss a blurred picture of my tongue, curiously stained with squid ink after a rather abortive bowl of Black risotto with clams and calimari. Note to self, ravioli is a pasta, you like pasta, risotto is a rice, you hate rice, ordering rice is a bad move, especially when it is soaked in ink. Another note to self, panecota is a wobbly pud, panettone is a cake with raisins in it, ordering the first while expecting the second will only lead to disappointment.

The picture above shows what happens when you take a bicycle pump, attach it to the end of a 1.5lt plastic bottle, half fill it with water and pump like crazy. I suppose a comment about boys being boys is appropriate around now, but gosh darn it making rockets is FUN!

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Sequential siblings

Irrepressible tykes such as these need no introduction, they are the joyful progeny of the Southfields massive and have a right to a posting all of their own. Much thanks to K n' J for fab food and abundant liquor. Also most pleasant to see DD and Clara Bow in residence. I fear this will be the last gathering we get away with outside, I'm glad we toasted the departing Summer in such grand style.

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Art yawn

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Brain is full

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JC's Carwash

His arms beseeching infinity, His chiselled jaw set to stun. His acid green jump-suit fresh out of the box. He is the carwash Christ, perpetually poised with Holy Loofah in hand, ready to wash away the cares of the world. He's also a terrifying sight when you've been up all night and have just passed Him by as you stumble down the road towards King's Cross. I beg Him to wash away my demonic head-pain, but His is a higher calling and I have been judged and found wanting. Also, I don't have a car and obviously look a bit of a knob genuflecting before a day-glo mannequin. Humbled by his ascetic vigilance, and the stream of abuse from the fat gaffer inside who objects to my picture, I walk on.

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Man on fire

Some people call him the space cowboy, I'm not exactly sure who, but un homage to Steve Miller never goes amiss. I call him Juju. The sort of juju you sprinkle in a line in front of your doorway to keep the demons away. Aha, but what then do you do about the demon you've now trapped inside your house, what then eh? Well, to start with, you feed him. A lot. He's fond of practically everything so knock up a feisty pasta and give him that. Allow him to wash this down with beer and whisky and port and gin. He will be momentarily stunned, but don't be fooled, his powers of recovery are er, demonic. You have to keep him benign by then playing him an assortment of music. He will respond well to anything smokable at this point, give it to him in regular doses until the early hours of the morning. Do not, under any circumstances, allow him to sleep. No amount of screaming pleading, drubbing and stabbing can rouse him once he has entered the arms of morpheus. This is a bad thing. His wife would agree. She did, a lot. Then again, it's nice to know even demons can be sent to purgatory.

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Moon of the Loons

Some bizarre ghosting happened in this pic which gives the impression PC's aura is ready for its close-up, even if PC isn't. The roof of the Bartlett Gallery gives good view, the Gherkin pushing up through railtracks and girders in the dim distance and trains cantering by every so often. Just have to insure Tortured Artist doesn't have one too many green bottles and dash off the edge in joyful dilerium. Yes, that trippy trail in the sky is one mofo full moon.

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Fenestration - desperation

Inconceivable. Ha, by using this large word, I have cunningly shifted the text so it starts below the images rather than dribbling down the side of the left picture. No doubt there is some logical way of avoiding this happening, I just don't know what it is. Anyway, it's a great word immortalised by a great film, and should get an airing a lot more often.

The opening of the Bartlett Gallery in Bethnal Green was the culmination of many years of toil, hardship and borderline psychosis on the part of Tortured Artist. I wish him and his merry band every success for the future. Of course, now that he's got everything he's always wanted as an artist - giant studio, own personal gallery space, like minded artistes to supply objective yet deeply constructive criticism and advice - he now says it's all too late and his artistic ability has utterly deserted him. I removed the last of the beer bottles from his fevered grasp before he hurled it viciously to the ground to join its shattered brethren, then gently broke the half -nelson he had me in, before it broke my neck. I was then about to offer all manner of soothing words and assurances of his genius, when I realised he was listening to Bruce Springsteen. This made it abundantly clear he was beyond hope. I went back up stairs to the rooftop to listen to some fiendish imp mash up an old moog in tandem with his Apple mac. Now that's an art.

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Sublime vs Ridiculass

When you're having so much goddam fun all the time, weekend after weekend, it's easy to forget. Forget that we went to a fabulous Jazz Cafe picnic in the grounds of a beautiful stately home. Forget we made a delicious margarita mix and brought it along in a handy dispenser. Forget the jolly friends, the happy crowds, the monkey's wedding, the all encompassing goddam fun we had. I'm remembering it now, with a little prompting from GWonder (doll). Curiously enough, while the lady on the left, the lovely Melanie, has lingered long in my mind, I seem to have misplaced the lady on the right. Perhaps one needs to see a face. Ass recognition is a fine art I never quite mastered (Yes Spencer, that ass). Other things happened on this day. A gentleman called Dr.Syntax told us a salty tale of his encounters with humankind, he 'layed it down a cappella stylee' I think the kids might call it. We lay down on our picnic mat and chortled, our Waitrose packets whirling about our heads. Zero 7 made us all shake uncontrollably. Jose Gonzalez made us stop shaking and stroke our beards instead. Then we went home, a lot, home and home and by Christ are we still walking where's the fugging station, oh thank Gawd a bus, where are you, you're where? We wait for you, and wait and wait oh no I am going to cry I lie down on the ground just kick me please where are they now? Ah, here they are, super. Then we slept.

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Curious happenings in the night

There's a dreamy, surreal quality to the images taken on Saturday night. All appear to be distilled through some strange disco molasses, perpetually looping through infinite REM. That of course could just be the Voddies n' red bullocks talking. This girl looks like some pre-raphaelite babe, rather than a mongo club casualty abandoned by her friends. The rest of us are either freakishly distorted or layered in lava light to the point where our skin is the texture and colour of tangerines. My camera seems to be taking images via my own cerebral cortex. Finally, the man/machine unity I've been yearning for all my life. We will all become one with the Borg hahahahahaaha!

Yeah OK, that was the Voddies talking.

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Mr.Incredible and Girl Wonder (doll)

There is an extremely inebriated man sitting opposite me on the train to Hove. He is at that amiably drunk potentially belligerent stage, chatting randomly to the terrified Chinese couple next to him until I turn up and they do a runner. He takes his time to engage, leering at the cover of my music magazine and making lip smacking noises. Eventually I'm forced to fix him with a gimlet eye. 'Sheza bitof awright' he mumbles, jabbing a pudgy digit at the Ibiza babe frolicking on the front of Mixmag. I manipulate some facial muscles so my lips turn up at the edges, but the utter insincerity of this grimace fails to put him off. God shines down on me when he begins a lengthy treatise on the unsung merits of Rod Stewart and the Faces, letting slip that he's got all their records at his squalid hovel in Hastings. I politely point out he is sitting in the wrong set of carriages for Hastings and is on his way to Hove if he remains in his seat. Eyes bulging, he frantically grabs his can of Tennants and salty KPs and dashes for the front of the train. I bathe in the tangible waves of good will directed at me from the rest of my fellow passengers, until Hove, er, hoves in sight.

Girl Wonder (doll) waves from the balcony, and the titter and tinkle of Mr.Incredible's birthday party wafts down to me. The Zim factor is high at this event, as are most of the Zimmers. The blunt force trauma of being smashed in the face by so many 'flet' accents, sends me reeling into the arms of a large bowl of punch. This in turn sends me rolling onto the balcony. There, I find the b-day boy and, engaging hearty mode, discreetly try to shake off the (sucker) punch with jolly banter. The day gently dribbles into evening, all have supped of punch or the devil beer and merry appears to be the way forward. I have sensibly partaken in some wholesome stew action (cheers for that G-Wonder) and have partially returned to my senses, possibly around the same point certain hangers-on actively begin to leave theirs far behind. Herding cats madly, Mr.Incredible rustles up a fleet of taxis and we troop off into the Brighton night, destination Audio.

Two giant peroxide bouncers man the door and are remarkably friendly to this dubious rabble that staggers out of the darkness. I'm assured by Mr.I that the DJ is known for sending his acolytes on a Journey of Uplifting Musical Joy(TM) and I'm eager to experience this first hand. Sadly, said DJ appears to have not received the uplifting journey memo and decides instead to lead us in a giant samba via the grimy juke joints of the West Coast. This Latino/hiphop hybrid is a journey to the forth tier of Hell, presided over by a giant set of demonic congas. Knowing he can't sustain this diabolical tedium all night, our DJ let's his flunkey bosh out the odd OK tune. Tis' but a ruse to punish the unwary reveller who has stumbled hopefully back onto the dancefloor, with a fresh bombardment of whistle/conga horror. 4.00pm brings merciful release from this damnation, and we return to the sanctuary of the balcony, an unwelcome demon trailing after us. It's remarkable how far an individual has to go before polite middle class constraints snap. Here's a few top 'getting thrown out' tips. Consume all the consumables, do not offer any of your own. Ask people meaningless questions. Don't bother listening as they struggle to answer. Carry on talking over them about an exam you wrote. Consume more. Fall on people. Scream incomprehensibly in their ears at the club. Hang on people, sit on people, grope people. Return to after party despite palpable air of hostility. Talk incoherently yet again about self. Burst into tears for no apparent reason and flounce off to the loo to no doubt hoover secret drug stash. Upset old friend of the host in the process. Throw bottle off balcony. Yes! Finally, an act so stupid and unnecessary, even I am appalled. He is summarily ejected and all breathe an enormous sigh of relief. I immediately play an exuberant samba tune and everyone shoots themselves. (Ha jokes, not really hey Boet)

Happy Joy Mr.Incredible. May your jaw forever be chiselled and all your demons thrown over the balcony (preferably at the beginning of the evening)

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Art, everyone's at it

These are collaborative works produced by my child and his mother. They are part of a future exhibition, revolving around the worldview of a child and how their perceptions evolve and are influenced by parental opinions of the the same symbols and mythic representions they both encounter in their daily lives. Fairy tales, religious iconography, pop culture, the detritus of a 1st world society. I'm opening this event. I'm going have to be a bit more coherent than this.


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In camera

Peeping Tom the film that destroyed the career of respected British Director, Michael Powell, was compulsory viewing in our film course at Uni. This image instantly transports me back to the icy cold projector room of the journ department at Rhodes. Our breath solidifying before our us, we huddled together for warmth while creepy Carl Boehm roamed the seedy underbelly of Sixties Soho (can I say 'Boehm roamed'? guess I just did) The subjects of his perverted desires? Disfigured prostitutes. His depraved quest? To capture on film the purest moment of abject fear as his victim realised they were about to be skewered on one of the sharpened legs of his tripod (no Spencer, not that tripod, though no doubt the comparison was intentional) Perhaps it was the combination of sub-zero tempratures and smuggled-in Tassenburg Red, but this film scared the living shies out of us. So now I go and take this weird picture and it all comes flooding back, aaaaaaahh, I hate Tassies!

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